


A Dweeb in a Leather Jacket and a Punk Band

by beezyland



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Alex is a punk music snob with Pete Wentz Syndrome, Alternate Universe - Punk Band, Everyone Needs Hugs, F/F, F/M, Franny is so pregnant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lorna is a cute clumsy diner girl, Nicky can keep rhythm actually, Nicky is a good bro, Past Sexual Abuse, Piper is supportive (mostly), Poussey on keys and stage diving, a family that embarrasses and calls each other out for shits and giggles, fuck fame, mentioned character death - not depicted, past drug abuse, power singer and Smiths fanatic Flaca, so many silly nicknames, the band is family, using the band to hang out without having to admit they like hanging out together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beezyland/pseuds/beezyland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what her band says, they don’t go to that tiny, grimy 24-hour diner after every gig because Nicky has a crush on the cute, clumsy diner girl. Nicky just likes the milkshakes. And maybe she kind of owes that cute, clumsy diner girl her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dweeb in a Leather Jacket and a Punk Band

Nicky swears on David Bowie’s life that she has found the best milkshake in New York and it calls a tiny, grimy 24-hour diner its home. Not the best in Brooklyn. Not the best in all five boroughs. It is the best damn milkshake in the entire state. Hell, maybe in the entire world.

After a night of performing with your band, buzzing on a scuffed stage in a tiny hole-in-the-wall venue, high on adrenalin and showing off for the drunk and hot girls at the foot of the stage, there is nothing more satisfying than stopping into your new favorite joint for a thick, cold milkshake and greasy French fries. They also serve breakfast 24/7, which is awesome and the pie isn’t so bad either.

“We need a fucking band name!” Flaca, lead singer and lead guitar, slams her fist against the diner table, rattling plates and cups. She looks around the table with her cat-like eyes outlined in thick black lines, hovering just above her worn copy of _Mozipedia: The Encyclopedia of Morrissey and the Smiths_. “I’m tired of people referring to us as Hot Vause and Others.”

“What can I say?” The bassist, dressed from head to toe in solid black, shrugs her broad shoulders. She tries to play innocent, but it’s no match for the air of dignity (some would say arrogance) that comes with being Alex Vause.

Poussey, their keyboardist and vocalist, is dressed smart in a fitted varsity jacket with leather sleeves. She clears her throat and holds out her hand as if preparing to recite Shakespeare. “Some are born with Pete Wentz Syndrome, some achieve Pete Wentz Syndrome, and some have Pete Wentz Syndrome thrust upon them.”

Alex scowls and throws a few French fries at Poussey from across the table, all while keeping her arm around her on-and-off girlfriend of sorts, Piper Chapman. She sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the musicians, with her pin-straight golden blonde hair, pastel cardigan and headband to match.

(One time Piper showed up to their gig wearing a Kurt Cobain tee she bought at Forever 21 and Flaca nearly tore her a new asshole, going off about how disrespectful it is to turn an artist’s suffering into a fashion statement. In true Piper Chapman fashion, she had no idea the graphic was Cobain’s suicide note. In true band fashion, other than Alex, they refused to be seen with her in it.)

“How about we call ourselves the Snatch Sisters?” Nicky suggests. “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pussy? The Bean Flicking Mother Teresas? Oh! Alotta Vagina!” Her eyes dart between Alex and Piper, lips curling and eyes shining with mischief. “One of our hit songs _is_ called Gay Feet. It only seems appropriate.”

Piper’s been hanging out with the band for going on a year now, but she still tenses and blushes when they poke fun. Alex just fixes her arm around the blonde, curls her fingers through Piper’s.

“Ooh!” Nicky snaps her fingers. “How about Sapphic Vibes? You know, like what’s comin’ off the Vausaman corner of the booth.”

Flaca clears her throat loudly. “If you’ve forgotten, not all of us are elbow deep in dykes.”

Poussey sputters with laughter and leans closer to the Latina with a bright smile that’s equal parts amusement and disbelief. “Bitch, do I need to remind you of that Ramos chick? She was into more than your fucking 'How Soon is Now' cover." 

“Fuck you! My Smiths covers are fucking fantastic. Morrissey would be fucking proud. And I swear, if any of you tell Ian, you’re dead." 

“What happened to Maritza the Pizza Eater anyway?” Nicky asks. “You two were like Pinky and the Brain, Scooby and Shaggy, Lucy and Ethel, but with more handsy selfies with the little tags in Español at the end.”

“She said the Smiths is pussy music.” Flaca purses her lips, a near pout.  

“And Ramos got knocked up. Shit got weird _fast_ ,” Poussey explains.

“Fucking straight girls.” Alex seems rather resentful, missing the way Piper twitches beside her. “You know, Gonzo, there’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re gay. You are in a borderline queercore band.”

“Or bisexual,” Piper adds. “Bisexuality is a thing. It exists.” 

“I prefer to not label myself, thank you very much,” Flaca says calmly.

All the attention is on Flaca (except Nicky who’s inspecting the faded, laminated desert menu) and anyone else would find it overwhelming. If Flaca were capable of it, she’d probably blush, but being the offspring of the devil does have benefits, including disabled emotional cues apparently. Before Flaca can verbally ream them, a favorite pastime of hers, their waitress walks over.

Nicky perks up and she hates that all of her bandmates notice. Can you blame her? The waitress is cute with her dark hair pinned back and her lips traced with a bold shade of red. She looks even cuter in her striped uniform dress, ‘70s and retro, which seems appropriate for a crumbling diner that’s been open for decades. Her nametag reads _Lorna_ and even that sounds suiting.

“Can I interest any of ya in dessert?”

“Yeah, I was wonderin’, how’s your cherry pie?” Nicky asks with the suggestive curl of her lips. Alex laughs out loud before she can catch herself while Piper elbows Nicky and doesn’t even try to be discrete about it.

The faintest blush creeps across Lorna’s pale, heavily powdered cheeks. “It’s, um, fine. No complaints so far.”

“Dios mío.” Flaca shakes her head from behind the book she’s read a couple dozen times, every other line highlighted and margins filled with scribbles.

Ignoring the irritable singer, Nicky presses on. “Just fine? Is it mouthwatering? Is it the perfect balance of sweet and tart? Is it gonna make me pucker?”

Lorna is visibly flustered, but in the blink of an eye, she rests her hand on her jutted hip and gives Nicky a pointed look. “Hey, it’s two in the morning, I’m exhausted and we all know every time you’ve come in here for the past month, with or without your friends, you always order the blood donut milkshake. Would you like whipped cream with it?”

Nicky can’t speak, oddly more turned on than upset or embarrassed. The band shows their amusement with the burst of laughter that follows. Flaca even smiles and lifts her book up to hide it.

“ _Damn_.” Poussey whistles.

“Definitely the milkshake,” Alex pipes in. “Nichols needs something to cool off.”

“I’d love whipped cream and don’t forget I like my shake extra thick,” Nicky says, recovering fairly quickly. Then sweetly, “Thanks.”

“Sorry about her, Lorna,” Piper apologizes.

“It isn’t the first and something tells me it won’t be the last. You’ve got interesting friends, Chapman.” Lorna scribbles down on her pad of paper before being on her way with a little spring in her step. Nicky stands slightly to watch her go and lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It comes out as a throaty, strangled sound the rest of the table has to have heard.  

“You have no chance with that, by the way,” Flaca points out.

“How do you know her, Pipes?” Alex asks.

“Lorna was in that cosmetology course I attempted,” Piper says, clearly chooses her words carefully. “Up until I realized I could learn more about making artisanal soaps from YouTube. She’s really nice so don’t fuck with her, Nicky.”

“More like don’t literally fuck her, Nichols!” Poussey nearly shouts. “I know you aren’t gonna go and ruin this place for us. This is our after gigs chill spot, man! We don’t need you fucking the waitress and fucking her over and making the rest of us paranoid about what else might be in our food, iight?”

“I don’t know what any of you are getting at.” Nicky half-heartedly plays stupid and can’t keep her eyes off the waitress. Lorna has her little arms beneath a tray stacked with dishes, nearly dropping the whole lot. Everything about her makes Nicky want to smile. “Calm down, jerkoffs. I just like the milkshakes here.”

 

…

 

It was just Nicky and Alex for a long time.

Well, Nicky and Alex and heroin and the random girls they’d fuck for fun and never talk to again. There are only three things Alex has ever been good at: playing her black nickel bass guitar (named Suzie Q), seducing naïve English majors and moving large amounts of heroin.

Three of Nicky’s strengths include: seeing the world and the people in it for what they really are, banging the shit out of an array of drums and somehow managing to keep some kind of rhythm and seducing cute dark-haired girls mostly with her eyes and smiles.  

(You’d be surprised or maybe not how often a frank “wanna fuck?” works for Nicky Nichols.)

They rolled through their late teens living a charmed little life of drugs, sex and music with Alex making her money off drugs and Nicky spending her trust fund mainly on drugs. It was fun for a time. Until the heart thing happened. 

Nicky landed herself on a surgeon’s table with an infection in her heart. Sharing needles with strangers is a game of Russian roulette and the Nichols came over on the Mayflower. Gambling was not Nicky Nichols’ forte. It was a wakeup call to say the least. It led to detox and NA meetings and a woman who changed Nicky’s life, her sponsor, Red. Alex still moves large amounts of heroin with ease, but she doesn’t get high off her stash and Nicky doesn’t get high at all. 

Some nights she craves it. Other nights it doesn’t even cross her mind. Some nights she’ll trace her finger down the scar between her breasts and make a mental list of every shitty thing she’s done as far back as she can remember, which isn’t as much as she probably should. Other nights she refuses to acknowledge the scar, won’t look at it when she stares in the mirror, pretends it isn’t as deeply imbedded in her very essence as it is in her skin.

It feels like she has trouble sleeping every night, especially tonight with the moans and squeals coming from the next room. Fucking Chapman. Vause literally fucking Chapman. Nicky likes Piper, secretly loves having her around. She thinks of Piper as an endless fountain of entertainment and she’s happy Alex is happy, but fuck are they inconsiderate fucks when they’re fucking. 

Sprawled out across her bed with her head hanging off the edge, hair touching the floor, Nicky sings softly, “Flashback of a feeling, sick sense of calling, heard you fuck through the wall, I heard you fuck when I’m bored…”

Springing up to her feet, Nicky decides this is not how she’s going to spend her night. Fuck Alex and Piper and fuck the poor insulation and too thin walls. As she steps into a pair of jeans with just the right amount of tears in the knees and grabs a carton of cigarettes, Nicky rolls her eyes at Piper chanting, “I’m coming! I’m coming!” 

Just before she’s out the door, untangling her earphones, Nicky eyes her drums in the corner because nothing ruins a mood quite like Nicky Nichols nonsensically banging the shit out of her drums, searching for a sound that matches how she feels inside. Ultimately, Nicky decides against it, grabs her leather jacket and walks the streets until she finds herself in the diner.

Nicky sits at the counter lined with no more than eight stools and Lorna brings her a cup of coffee without having to ask. Nicky smiles at her, much more freely than when her bandmates are there to read too much into her every expression.

“Thanks,” Nicky says. “And can I try a slice of your cherry pie?”

Lorna deadpans. “Is that serious or are you makin’ fun of me again?”

“When have I ever made fun of you?”

“How ‘bout the other night in front of your little friends?”

“I wasn’t making fun of you! I was just playing around.”

The word _flirting_ floats to the front of Nicky’s mind, but Lorna remains skeptical. She seems like the innocent, oblivious type, but Nicky has that image of Lorna with her hand on her hip, telling her off in front of the band seared into her memory bank. 

“So, that cherry pie?”

Lorna hums and pulls out her notepad. “Well, since you’re such a fan of the milkshakes, how ‘about a cherry pie milkshake?”

Nicky’s eyes widen. “That’s a thing?”

“Oh yeah, we’re pretty much known for ‘em. We’ll turn anything on the dessert menu into a milkshake for ya. I guess we could turn anything on the entire menu into a milkshake for ya, but we’re yet to get any requests for an entrée milkshake even this late at night.”

“Yeah, let’s do it.” Nicky drums her hands against the counter. She’s a drummer; it’s a habit. “Why not go crazy, huh? If I’m not dead yet, what’s a pieshake gonna do to me?”

Nicky laughs, but Lorna frowns knowingly. She actually seems concerned, which throws Nicky because why would she be? They don’t even know each other. After a moment, Lorna shifts her weight to the tips of her toes with a bright smile and repeats the order before going to put it in.  

While she’s gone, Nicky re-evaluates their every interaction in a matter of seconds. She isn’t proud of the speed at which she finishes the task. She doesn’t even put out her iPod or her little notepad of scribbles that she never goes anywhere without, too busy watching Lorna create this cherry pie milkshake. She’s sort of the cutest mess, spilling things here and there. Lorna would have turned on the blender without securing the cover if another waitress didn’t shout her name and waddle over before she flipped the switch.  

The final product is a light pink mixture in a fancy glass, topped with a swirl of whipped cream, a whole cherry and dusted crushed gram crackers. Lorna sets it in front of Nicky, so damn proud of the effort that went into making it.

“Do you usually make the milkshakes?” Nicky asks.

Lorna nervously sways from side to side on the other side of the counter. “Sometimes. Not always. As you can see I’m kind of a klutz.”  

“Easy, kid. No use crying over spilled _milk_ shake.”

“Hardy har har,” Lorna says in a high-pitched, almost shrill voice. “Well, are you gonna try it or what?” 

Nicky slides the glass closer, hyperaware that she has an audience. All of her movements are slow and deliberate as she wraps her lips around the stripped straw stuck in the milkshake and meets Lorna’s eyes as she sucks. There’s a 50/50 chance that acknowledging her will scare Lorna away or she’ll hold her gaze. The fact that Lorna chooses the latter is as satisfying as the sweet-tart bursts flirting with her taste buds. Nicky savors the taste, humming softly. Lorna stares, bright-eyed with lips parted, like she’s never met someone like Nicky in her life and probably hasn’t.

“Okay, okay, it ain’t _that_ good.”

“Are you kidding?” Nicky asks with mock outrage. “Why else do you think I’m always in here if not for the best damn milkshakes in New York?” 

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Lorna shakes her head, thinking she just embarrassed herself. “Can I get ya anything else?" 

“Just, I…you remember me, right?” Nicky asks, sounding so unsure and antsy all of a sudden. “From that night a couple months back…”

“Yeah, ‘course I do. It isn’t ever day…well…it’s nice to see you comin’ around again. You had me wondering for a while there. I swear you’re like a stray cat I fed once and now you keep coming back.” Her words register and Lorna looks practically panicked. “I mean that in the best way! I love strays.”

“Gotcha. I think they call it Nightingale Syndrome.” Nicky gives her an easy grin and it seems to help Lorna relax even if she’s still impossibly red. “Nicky. My name’s Nicky Nichols, by the way.”

“Lorna Morello. As you can see.” She motions to her nametag. Lorna’s so open, wears her heart on her sleeve and Nicky likes that. She also likes the cute outfit, can’t help but let her eyes linger. “What? Did I spill something?” Lorna looks down at herself, so self-conscious and Nicky forces her eyes back upward. “The lighter soups and dressings ain’t always obvious with the lighting in here.”

“Nope,” Nicky says easily. “You look great, kid.”

It being the early hours of the morning and the diner being mostly empty, Lorna hangs around long enough for them to have a conversation about movies.

Lorna loves cheesy, romantic movies, enjoys gushing about them with her hand over her heart, eyes tearing up. To Lorna Morello, rom-coms are not to be taken lightly unlike Nicky who finds the bulk of her enjoyment mocking and pointing out plot holes. Eventually, they do find common grounds—Lorna loves Rachel McAdams in every movie she’s ever done and Nicky loves Rachel McAdams in tight skirts and low-cut tops. 

When she finally leaves the diner just as the sun is ready to come up and Lorna’s shift comes to an end, Nicky leaves a substantially large tip, sure to scrawl her name and phone number across the dollar bill on the top.

 

…

  

They know _of_ Flaca for a while before the band actually becomes a band.

Flaca has always been a notable face on the music scene with her too symmetrical hair and her signature teardrops. She was in a goth band (Alex nearly barfed and definitely bitched every time they took the stage at Chang’s Open Mic Night), but it isn’t hard to guess that the chick is volatile as fuck.

When Flaca caught her then-boyfriend cheating on her with the hot goth drummer, the piss poor goth band’s breakup happened over the course of a night spent in jail. Flaca lacks the ease and charisma that defines a frontman, but her undying love for the Smiths earns her a handful of cool points and her dynamite voice makes her a perfect choice for lead. When Flaca first joined the band, Nicky was sure to solemnly swear not to fuck any of her boyfriends.

It’s always hard to tell if Flaca is serious about the band with her indifferent attitude and not to mention how she’s late to practice _all the goddamn time_.

They used to practice right in Nicky and Alex’s apartment, but after complaints from neighbors and threats from the landlord, they started renting practice space in Bushwick. It’s a nice, open room with gigantic windows and exposed brick walls. Poussey races around like a productive mouse, tending to the instruments and amps while Nicky nukes a peanut butter Balance bar in the microwave that sits on the mini-fridge filled with beer and leftover limes from their last Tequila Tuesday. Piper sits on the beat-up couch (that they found thrown out on the side of the street, but never told Piper because she’d refuse to sit on it) as Alex argues with someone on her phone out in the hall.

“Chapman, you’re here!” Flaca shouts cheerfully as she waltzes into the room, lugging her hardshell guitar case at her side.

Poussey’s busy hands stutter and her eyes whip over to the door. Nicky pauses with her Balance bar hanging halfway out of her mouth. Both perplexed, but not as much as Piper, who freezes like a deer about to be hit by an armored car. Flaca either makes snide comments to Piper or ignores her entirely. Flaca acknowledging Piper and—god forbid— _smiling_ is fucking strange.

“Flaca,” Piper says carefully. “Hi.”

“After you didn’t show on Tuesday, I was hoping you’d be here today.”

The way Flaca eyes Piper can only be described as _wolfish_ as she pulls her guitar that has a single _hang the DJ_ sticker on it out of its case. In the awkward silence that only Flaca refuses to acknowledge as awkward, the _Twilight Zone_ theme fills the room—courtesy of Poussey and her keyboard, of course.

“Nice, Dopey,” Flaca says sharply.

“Look who’s late to practice _again_ , Grumpy,” Poussey replies.

“At least I’m not late in the way that counts. Thank God.” Flaca plugs her guitar into the awaiting amp and tugs the strap around her shoulder so the guitar hangs coolly down her body. She lazily draws her fingers down the strings and turns to Poussey. “Let’s give Chapman a little preview of I Wasn’t Ready.”

Poussey looks at her shoes to hide her smile and Nicky laughs with her mouth full when Flaca’s intentions dawn on them. The only one who’s still clueless (and maybe a little afraid) is Piper sitting ramrod straight on the couch.

“I should be afraid, shouldn’t I?” Piper asks. Nicky plops down on the other end and pulls her phone out, discretely opening the camera app and hitting record. Piper is too nervous and anxious to realize the phone is pointed at her.

“Not at all,” Flaca says sweetly, testing the microphone. She has a knack for playing nice right before going in for the kill. “We’ve been working on something you might like. Inspired by Alex, which technically means it’s inspired by you.”

Flaca strums her guitar with much more intent, creating such a powerful sound. Poussey comes in just behind her with her fingers working tirelessly against the keys, pumping out an infectious upbeat tempo.

“She came, came, came, she came seven times!” Flaca shout-sings into the mic. “She came, came, came, she came seven times!”

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, seven times?” Poussey throws out in the background.

Nicky snorts with laugher, both at her bandmates’ idiocy and Piper turning so red she’s nearly purple. Flaca sings the same line over and over again as Piper spirals deeper and deeper into mortification that quickly turns to anger. Piper finally remembers her legs, walks up and pushes the microphone to the ground, ruining the moment with a loud, angry sound.

“The fuck, Chapman?” Flaca hisses. “Hands off the merchandise, puta.”

“Sh-she told you!” Piper shouts and gives the musicians a sweeping look as they dissolve into laughter, looking more like giggly children than cool, badass punks. “Alex told all of you about us i-in bed?”

“More like bragged about it,” Poussey says. “If we’re being honest.”

“Aw, Chapman, you didn’t even let them get to the best part of the song!” Nicky whines. “The bridge is all about you being a squirter and how Alex wasn’t ready. Get it?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!”

Poussey hits a sour note on her keyboard before the room goes silent. Nicky’s jaw drops and her lips stretch into a smile that strains her entire face. Flaca, who rarely shows how truly amused she is by anything ever, fucking _giggles_ and when Piper realizes, her face contorts in horror.

“Alex didn’t tell you about that?” Piper asks. Because, of course. She’s Piper Chapman and this is her life. “In true Piper Chapman fashion, I just did, didn’t I? Fantastic.”

“What did you do now, Pipes?” Alex asks teasingly, ending her phone call and entering the room. She goes to round her arm around Piper’s shoulders, but the blonde refuses contact and marches to the door mumbling something that sounds a lot like _fuck you, Alex._ Alex looks around at them. “What the fuck, guys?”

Alex doesn’t wait for an answer and follows Piper out the door.

“And cut!” Nicky ends the recording on her phone. “Yep, that’s gonna be a hit on our band Instagram. A real likes-muncher.”

“Hey, make sure you use a nice filter.” Flaca sets her guitar down on the rack before strutting over to the cheap full-length mirror leaning against the wall, wearing fitted leather pants. “Nichols, how does my ass look in these?”

Poussey glances between them, forehead creased, finding the change of topic totally weird. Nicky just laughs out loud, doesn’t take her eyes off her phone.

“You’re killing me,” Nicky says. “No one likes a tease, Taco Meat.”

“Liar. I’ve seen the girls you corner at the bar. Tease by definition.” Flaca checks herself out in the mirror, twisting her hips from side to side, trying to look at her ass from every angle. She’s more intent on pleasing herself rather than anyone else in the room. “I’ve got a hot date tonight and I’m thinking of wearing this.”

“And I’m your go-to fashion swami?” Nicky snorts.

“Fuck no,” Flaca replies. “I don’t trust you with much. Even think of touching my guitar and die, but we both know we’d never _ever_ be a thing so I trust you to be objective about my ass.”

“And you don’t trust Poussey to be objective about your ass?” Nicky smiles, turned up for the sudden awkwardness in the room. It’s a pot she loves to stir and stirs often.

“Plus,” Flaca continues, “We all know you prefer cannolis to chilies rellenos, Nichols.”

Nicky’s mostly amused by how certain Flaca is that she nailed that one on the head and to some extent she has. Except Nicky’s pretty much up for eating anything when she’s hungry.

“Hey Hooch,” Nicky calls out to Poussey, who rolls her eyes at them and continues to fiddle with her keyboard. “Better shape up. Taco Bell is working her way up to being my favorite bandmate.”

“Nein, motherfucker, nein.”

“For the record, your ass looks fine in sprayed-on leather,” Nicky says matter-of-factly. “And if the music-mutilating molly-pushing British boy toy disagrees then I tell you what we’ll do. Vause can hold him down as you beat his disk jockey ass and I tape it, yet another Instagram hit.”

“Yo, you two need to get a fucking room,” Poussey mutters.

“What? No group hug?” Nicky asks. “Backroom threesome? We could even make each other come _seven times_ and write a song about it after. Sounds fun, right?”

“Get your ass behind the drums, Nichols. It’s time for actual practice.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

…

 

Nicky orders pancakes one night because why the fuck not? Pancakes sound like they go amazingly well with insomnia. A curse slips from her lips when a glob of syrup drops onto her open notepad and when she goes to wipe it away, the ink smears. Nicky heads to the restroom that’s down a short flight of stairs, but stops short at the door.

A rush of memories hits her like a particularly violent wave. They aren’t memories per say. The last time she was down here it was a blur. She may not remember every one of her actions or every word spoken, but she does remember sweating through her shirt and her heart feeling like it was ready to explode. Her body felt ready to finally, _finally_ give out.

Nicky shoves past the door and catches a glimpse of Lorna, specifically the tears running down her cheeks. She quickly moves into the newest stall. Nicky’s first instinct is to walk right back out. Sticky fingers are the least of her worries. Just as she turns away, Nicky hears a sob and it’s surprising how upset it makes her.

“Everything okay in here?” Nicky asks.

Then she mentally kicks herself for it because who likes to be called out on having a breakdown in a bathroom at four in the morning?

“I’m fine.” The effort it takes to mutter those two words seems to open the floodgates and suddenly Lorna’s making these short, sharp heaving sounds that bounce off the walls. Usually, Nicky would be whistling innocently and sauntering out by now, but this time she goes to wash her hands, praying it’ll make Lorna feel a little less like a sideshow attraction. Her cries subside, turn into slower, deeper breaths and Nicky asks, “Rough week?”

“Try year.” Lorna sniffles. “On top of my totally messed sleep pattern because of this job that barely pays anything once I factor in bills and whatnot, my fiancé…”

Nicky frowns at that, feels her stomach drop under the weight of disappointment. She can’t remember ever seeing a ring. Not when Lorna places a hot plate in front of her or refills her coffee. Then again, Nicky hadn’t exactly been trying to look either.

“Ah, trouble in paradise?”

“No, no,” Lorna says. “I shouldn’t be botherin’ you with my complaining.”

“C’mon, from one insomniac milkshake lover to an obligatory insomniac milkshake server.”

Lorna laughs weakly. “Anyone ever tell you you’re good with words?”

“All the fucking time. You wouldn’t even believe.”

Nicky leans against the stall partition, feeling like a puppy at its owner’s feet, trying to be comforting. Christ, she feels like fucking Alex sitting against the bathroom door when Piper locks herself in there after getting into a fight. It’s a scary thought, but not scary enough to send her running.

“I’m fine now, really, Nicky.”

And it makes Nicky’s faulty heart flutter a little that Lorna remembers her name.

“It’s nice of you to check in on me like this. Most folks, especially around here, wouldn’t care enough to.”

“Trust me, Morello. I’m not that nice.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

Lorna unlocks the stall door and Nicky quickly backs a safe distance away. When Lorna walks out, she goes straight to the sink and gives herself a look in the mirror. Lorna splashes some cold water onto her cheeks and grabs a sheet of paper towel, relentless in her attempt to salvage her makeup.

“Can I, uh, buy you a milkshake?” Nicky asks meekly. Lorna stops swiping the corner of the paper towel beneath her eye and tilts her head questioningly. “You heard me right. A milkshake. Milkshakes makes everyone feel better, right?”

Lorna sniffles loudly, but doesn’t reply. Nicky swallows hard and leans against the stall door. She’s never dealt with rejection well. This almost feels like another pathetic self-fulfilling prophecy after Lorna flat-out mentioned having a fiancé. Still, Nicky’s going to do what she can because the girl really seems to need it and after all the little chats they’ve had when Nicky couldn’t sleep, yeah, she could do this for Lorna.

“C’mon, you know my dessert preference,” Nicky says. “What’s your favorite?”

After a moment spent gauging Nicky’s sincerity, Lorna answers, “I’m not much of a milkshake person, but I love coconut cake.”

Nicky makes a face and Lorna absolutely deserves it with her answer. “Seriously? I’ll bet you’re the type who also likes pineapple on your pizza. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It ain’t so bad…”

“Not so bad, Lorna _Morello_? You’re Italian! That’s blasphemy! What would your family think? You’re like the Capulets and those young, hotshots cooking up pies with nontraditional toppings are the Montagues, right?”

“I would’ve gone with a Sharks verses Jets metaphor myself.”

“Ah, you’re a West Side Story kind of girl.”

“You bet, Nichols.”

Nicky scratches her fingers through her hair and kicks at the scuffed floor in some sad attempt to play it cool, but Lorna calling her by her last name makes her so very aware of how smitten she is. Nicky doesn’t have much practice comforting crying girls in bathrooms. She usually has girls crying in bathrooms for other reasons. She doesn’t know what to do or say, but she can tell that Lorna doesn’t expect her to do or say anything and that’s nice.

“You really don’t have to buy me dessert.” Lorna steps toward the door and Nicky backs up, shoulders past it and holds it open for her.

“Eh. Not like it’s setting me back. It’s just a slice of—” Nicky sighs dramatically. “—Coconut cake.”

“But I actually, y’know work here so technically it would be free for me _and_ you always tip too much whenever you’re in here.”

“Do I? Aw, fuck,” Nicky says playfully. “See, I always think to download one of those tip calculator apps, but I can’t even remember my dumb password. My rule of thumb for tipping is better safe than sorry, right?”

Lorna giggles and it’s nice to hear, especially after hearing her cry just moments ago. “You are the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met, y’know?”

“So I’ve been told a time or two.” Nicky messes with her hair as they head up the stairs. “Well, if I don’t have to pay for it could we at least eat at the same table? Like, literally. That wasn’t a euphemism or anything.”

“Uh-huh.” Lorna’s eyes glisten. “Sure. But I gotta warn you, I like my coconut cake along with a scoop of chocolate ice cream.”

“Coconut and chocolate? Jesus, kid.”

For once, Lorna sits across from her in a booth instead of lingering tableside or on the other side of the counter, always on her feet. They talk a little more, but not about why Lorna was crying or her fiancé.

(Nicky checks and, nope, no ring.)

Instead of dwelling or questioning, Nicky just enjoys the moment. She sees the way Lorna Morello demolishes a slice of cake and scoop of ice cream like no other, marveling at the stark contrast of the bit of coconut that catches on Lorna’s bold red lips. Nicky realizes she should be turned off or at least a little discouraged by everything she’s seen and heard tonight, but all she can do is smile so wide her cheeks ache.

 

…

 

One time a drunk made the stupid assumption that Poussey was in the band to “sing the rap parts only” and Alex punched him in the face. It was awesome.

The way he said it totally deserved the shiner because she contributes so much more than that even if that had been their initial intention when trying to convince her to join. Poussey broke out onto the warehouse music scene as part of a hip-hop collective. She would beast fuckboys in rap battles, sure to weave some German in, confusing whoever was stupid enough to underestimate her. Before that, as a teen, Poussey went to a fancy art school, was formally trained in piano and vocals, before being sent to military school.  

Poussey and Alex both work at a little record store on the Lower East Side and the girl with the miniature mohawk first laughed at the idea of joining their band. They had been determined to get Poussey in. She has a knack for making the sickest beats and she has such stage presence, so much energy and charisma. It took weeks and weeks of asking, but Poussey finally agreed to check out one of their practices after work and the rest is history.

“I don’t deal anymore, man. Why I gotta tell you twenty times a day? Shit, Nichols.” Poussey goes back to rearranging the W section of the LPs in the record store. “Some people, man. We have manners. We polite. You’d think the extreme vinyl snob hipsters would be a little more courteous with their refined taste and shit. What’s so hard about putting something back where it belongs? Letting Katy Perry touch Ye’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy? Fucking Prism should be filed under P for Perry and piece of shit. Do they not teach the fucking alphabet anymore?”

Nicky lets her fingers dance across the vinyl wrapped in plastic, sifting aimlessly. “Eh, I bet Flaca did it. Wouldn’t be the first time. She gets off on fucking your shit up to get a rise outta ya. Better turn down that flirtation. We don’t need that shit breaking up the band.”

Poussey laughs, showing off those pearly whites. “Fuck off, Medusa. Shee-it. Put it on a greeting card and send it to Vause and Chapman.”

“You’re paranoid. We’ve been a band for _years_ now. Vause picked that one up at that party we played up at Smith two summers ago. They’ve broken up before and haven’t broken up the band yet and they won’t. It’s a no-brainer. We’re obligated to take Vause’s side for the good of the band.”

Poussey hums, but doesn’t sound interested anymore. Can anyone blame her? Who isn’t tired of Piper and Alex’s on-and-off merry-go-round of a relationship? They always find their way back together and that’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it?

“Why are you sniffing around for drugs anyway? I thought you were done.”

“I am.” Nicky’s voice comes out hoarse and so she clears her throat, picks her conviction up off the ground. “It’s not like I’m looking for anything that requires a needle. Just a dime sack. Appropriately sized pot. I had like this weird déjà vu and I’ve been on edge since. It’d be for medical reasons, really.”

“Nah, it’s been, shit, a year since I’ve even talked to Tayst or RJ…”

(The one song that Poussey takes lead on and sings with all her heart is about regret, losing loved ones to death itself and losing others to the ‘hood that raised them then betrayed them. It’s an acoustic song, very minimal, nearly a cappella and high emotion. Poussey named it “Looks Blue, Tastes Red.”)

Nicky almost curses when she realizes how her innocent little inquiry must be picking at an old scab. Poussey kind of gets that far away look on her face as she stares down at a Wye Oak record. Nicky wonders if she has a similar look on her face when she loses herself in thoughts of the past, wanting to know if all the people she met at the height of her drug addiction are still alive. Nicky shakes the thought away. She doesn’t like to dwell and neither should Poussey.

“Anyway, I can’t make it to practice Thursday.”

“Fine by me,” Nicky says easily. “You just need to take it up with Four Eyes and the Queen of the Damned. Why? Hot date?”

“Yeah, with the cemetery,” Poussey says grimly. Her fingers move quicker through the row of records with a little less care as her face goes steely. “My momma’s anniversary. I’m taking the day off and my daddy’s got this whole day planned. It’s the least I could do after all the shit I was into when she passed…”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I…I get it. Alex gets that shit. Flaca too. She eats the hearts of unassuming British dudes, but she’s got one under all that black eyeliner.” Nicky shakes Poussey’s shoulder. “So, where do you keep the Bowie? Under B for badass, right?”

“B for banal.”

“Hey, I don’t say shit about Kanye, alright? Leave Sir David Bowie out of it!”

“That’s a shit change of topic if I ever heard one.” Poussey’s small, appreciative smile drops into a scowl when she’s forced to pull Tame Impala’s Lonerism vinyl out from between Vanessa Williams and Vanilla Ice.

“Fucking animals…I’d rather talk about that little shortie at the diner.” Poussey wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, making Nicky scoff. “I swear, there are literal cartoon hearts in your eyes and all up in the air whenever she’s working." 

“And intentionally misusing words like _literal_ is how you get under Flaca’s skin.”

“F’real, Nichols, be straight with me. Drugs? _Again_? Especially since that night after Red… I thought sex was your thing now? Why don’t you just whip out that Nicky Nichols charm and do what you do, sweep that waitress off her feet?”

“I don’t bother with straight girls.”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any. I don’t mess with that shit either.”

It goes unspoken, but the way they look at each other and burst with laughter says it all. They’re both liars. They’ve fucked it up in the past and will probably fuck it up in the future, enjoying the torturous, cliché of a ride all the while.

“Do me a favor?” Nicky asks. “If it’s on your way, could you bring Red that Pirozhki she loved so much and a Moscow mule, using that ginger beer you brew yourself? If the bakery had a liquor license you would’a been brewing that shit for her by the bathtub load.”

Poussey smiles that spectacular smile she’s known for and her eyes shine. “Absolutely, bruh.”

 

…

 

Nicky doesn’t know how it comes about. They’re about twenty minutes into one of their too late at night conversations over pie and coffee when she ends up telling Lorna about her biological mom. Nicky only realizes she’s talking about their strained relationship after she’s decidedly said too much. She anxiously taps her fingers against the edge of the table to beat of “Smoke on Water”, not looking at Lorna, who twists the corners of the crumpled napkin between her fingers, not looking back.

“That’s rough,” Lorna says after a while.

“Yeah, well, a bitch mom who looks at me like she thinks my entire existence is a big fucking mistake, but financially stable or motherly affection, but being dirt poor. I didn’t get off too bad, I don’t think.” Nicky moves her hands as if weighing her options. When she sees how sad Lorna appears, she falters. “Shit, did I…?”

Lorna pulls a smile that’s trying too hard. “’Course not.”

“Lorna!” a different waitress calls out from behind the counter. “Those napkin dispensers aren’t gonna refill themselves, are they?”

The young waitress rolls her eyes playfully before bouncing to her feet. “Want another refill, Nick?”

“Yeah, sure.”

There’s still that little hop in Lorna’s step as she slips behind the counter and grabs a fresh pot of coffee, but her movement seems a little more sluggish. Lorna always moves around like she’s moments away from breaking out in a full musical number even at four in the morning. The sudden change can only be a direct result of something Nicky said and she sort of hates herself for fucking up.

As Lorna refills her coffee mug, Nicky mumbles, “We’re cool, right?”

Lorna gives her a tight-lipped smile. “Funny. You don’t strike me as the type who cares much about people think of her.”

“I don’t. Not usually. With some people though, it’s different…”

Nicky watches her and makes for certain that Lorna knows she’s watching, that she feels it, all captivation and adoration, until she gets her desired reaction. Seeing Lorna spin around to hide her blush has become something of a new obsession for Nicky, especially on these nights where the insomnia and the loneliness are almost too much to handle.

Days later, when Alex is yelling at Poussey and Flaca for their “fucking wrong” opinions of the Grateful Dead, Nicky makes quick work of getting Piper drunk and asking about Lorna. Piper being the lightweight of all lightweights, it doesn’t take much pushing or prying and suddenly she’s going on and on about Lorna’s home life, how she lives with and cares for her family. Her mom is dead, her father disabled and her older sister has more kids than minimum wage can feed.

Nicky wants to knock her head against a wall over and over again, but instead ends up avoiding the diner for almost a week.

 

…

 

On the list of dumb things Alex and Piper could possibly be fighting about at three in the morning, a dumb drawer is quite possibly at the very dumb top.

“It’s about more than a stupid drawer, Alex!”

“Then what, Piper?”

“It’s about us! It’s about what we’re fucking doing! Because I don’t know anymore.”

“ _Well_ , I thought we were about to fuck.”

Nicky can see Alex’s signature eyebrow move almost _too_ clearly in her head and it makes her nauseas. She grabs her headphones and gets to work untangling them. The quicker she can drown out mommy and mommy fighting the better.

(For the record, it isn’t like Nicky is trying to eavesdrop on Alex and Piper’s domestic drama and shit. They’re just loud and, again, the walls are thin and it’s not her fault she surprisingly has full function of her sense of hearing, okay?)

“I can’t live like this, Al. Like we’re in relationship limbo. Are we together for real, in a committed adult relationship? Am I actually living here? Are you my emergency contact if I ever—god forbid—end up in the hospital?”

“And you’re saying a drawer is the answer to all those questions?”

“I’m saying it’s something! Which is more than you’re giving me now.”

“Not something you say to a girl who makes you come the way I do.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, Alex!”

“So am I! Look around, Pipes! Your shit is everywhere. When’s the last time you slept at your place? I tell _everyone_ , including my mom, that you’re my girlfriend while your parents still think you’re with fucking Larry!”

“That’s not fair. You know it’s complicated.”

“Oh, so my shit is something to fight about at goddamn 4am, but yours is ‘complicated’ and shrugged off? Damn it, Piper.”

“Fuck you, Alex.”

They’re quiet for a long time and only then does Nicky realize how absorbed she is in listening, her fingers still and tangled in her earphones. As much as the band teases and mocks their go at a relationship, Alex and Piper have valid, realistic concerns. The silence can only mean they’re sizing each other up, either a breath away from embracing or walking away. And fuck, Nicky realizes she’s rooting for them.

“You know I love you, right?” Alex asks.

“Honestly, Al, sometimes I don’t think you know what love is.”

Nicky inhales sharply because _low fucking blow, Chapman_.

The front door slams. And that’s it.

Keeping with her nightly routine, Nicky can’t sleep and can’t keep still and she isn’t ready to deal with the mess she made at the diner so that isn’t an option. Nicky watches the clock, gives it thirteen minutes before walking out into the main living area, making like she’s going to the kitchen. Alex sits in the dark near the window, wiping at her wet eyes beneath her glasses, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights outside.

“Snack?” Nicky asks casually.

Alex chokes on a miserable laugh. “You heard all of that, didn’t you?”

“Enough.”

“And all over a damn drawer.” Alex growls and knocks over the nearby lamp. By how tense she is even after the crash, the shattered ceramic brings her no solace. “Fuck.”

“I don’t get it.” Nicky sits on the arm of the couch a good distance away. “Just give her the damn drawer, Vause.”

“I did! She was dropping hints in her passive-aggressive Piper way and I told her straight that she could clear out a drawer and use it if she really wanted, but her stuff is all over the place already so why bother? Apparently that wasn’t the response she had in mind.” Alex throws her hands up. “You know me. I don’t do this. Before for her, my relationships were looser than...”

“Jello,” Nicky says. “Unset jello.”

Alex growls and hunches forward with her elbows on her knees, smoothing her fingers through her pin-straight hair. “I’m a fuck up. A spectacular fuck up.”

“That you are, but she always comes back… You love her?”

“Of course.”

Nicky tenses a little at how easy it is for Alex to admit that and wholeheartedly. It’s almost a thing to envy.

“Then clear out a damn drawer, Vause. Don’t tell her she can do it. _Show her_ , idiot. But first, you should probably go after her because it’s four in the morning and our neighborhood isn’t exactly Lenox Hill.”

“You know, for a relationship invalid, your advice isn’t half-bad.”

“Just get out so I can finally have some peace and quiet. Jesus.”

Alex gives Nicky a half-smile, a thank you even though she might never actually say the words. Alex doesn’t even grab a coat before she runs after her girl.

 

…

 

Visiting Red is as good excuse as any to be late to practice, but not a good enough excuse to not have consequences. She texts Alex just as she’s about to leave Queens for Brooklyn and she texts back, saying they called in their order to their favorite little diner and to pick it up on the way. Nicky doesn’t mind picking it up or paying for it. The problem is all the shit they’re giving her for actively avoiding the diner after a certain incident.

Nicky feels like she’s never been in the diner during the day. It has a different feel to it entirely. More people. More lively. And there’s Lorna.

It’s surprising to see her not working the late/early morning shift. She looks just as pretty as she does at night, if not more in the actual, natural life. Nicky tries to be as cool as possible as she approaches the register. From the corner of her eye, she sees Lorna cut a conversation short and nearly races to meet her.

“Hey stranger,” Lorna says sweetly. And that fluttery thing Nicky’s insides do in response, no, stop, body. “So you do come out in the daylight? That’s good to know.”

“I am indeed not a vampire. Disappointed?”

“No, it’s good seeing you.” Lorna oozes sincerity. “I asked Piper about you—”

“You ask around about me, Morello?”

Nicky smirks and leans forward. All that’s between their bodies is one pesky counter. Lorna holds her gaze for a teasing little moment and makes no attempt to answer the question.

“So how can I help you, Nichols?”

“Pickup. My friend called it in.”

“Let me guess.” Lorna spins around and collects the two bags behind her. Both are filled to maximum capacity and Nicky knows her wallet is going to take a hit with this one. “The order for Pussy Galore has to be you and your friends.”

Nicky reaches for her wallet while making a mental note to get back at her bandmates when they least expect it. “Hmm, that actually wouldn’t be a bad name for our band if not for, y’know, copyright infringement.”

“You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. I’d invite you to come see us play, but…”

“I don’t look like the type who listens to ‘good’ music?” Lorna plans her hands on her hips as she makes the defensive play and, Jesus, does Nicky love seeing this side of her. More than that, she likes bringing this out in her.

“I was going to say I don’t know if you’d be able to make it. Most of our gigs are pretty late at night and you usually work pretty late at night so…”

“You memorized my work schedule, Nichols?”

“Touché.”

Their eyes lock again, only to be interrupted by a man coming up to stand behind Nicky, holding his bill and ready to pay. Lorna works her magic with the register and Nicky hands over her card. She can’t be too mad at the band because when Nicky walks out, arms full of food, she notices Lorna’s phone number scrawled across the receipt along with a cute little heart at the end.

 

…

 

They all have a different pre-show warm-up routine.

For instance, Alex likes to make out with Piper before every performance. Not even just a little good luck peck. They are all over each other. Hands everywhere. Tongues everywhere. They take up the entire couch backstage with Alex on top and Piper giggling. It’s become so common that they don’t even care who else is around. It’s become so annoyingly common the others don’t even care to notice anymore.

Poussey likes to blast rap and do push-ups backstage, getting into “her zone.” Nicky usually likes to peek out at the crowd and find the hottest girls at the foot of the stage, but has recently put that to rest and is now sitting with Flaca, who always gets a little chatty right after doing a few vocal warm-ups and right before hitting the stage.

“What if she thinks you just want to be friends?” Flaca asks.

“When did I ever say I wanted more than friends?”

“Please. You’re Nicky Nichols. When have you ever wanted to be just friends with a girl that wasn’t completely out of your league?”

 _I am one of those girls completely out of your league_ is implied and Nicky shows she does not appreciate it by throwing a handful of pretzels at Flaca.

“Rude!”

“Raise your hand if you’re tired of Flaca talking about herself,” Nicky says. Poussey, who has moved on to one-arm push-up, raises her free hand. Alex and Piper both raise their hands without their lips ever leaving each other’s.

“Okay, but what if she knows you’re gay and knows she isn’t gay and she’s just fucking with you?” Flaca asks, shooing pretzels off of her white crop top.

“You’re one to talk.” Poussey coughs. Alex pulls away from the intense lip lock to laugh at that.

Flaca, being Flaca, goes for the heavy hitter, grabs the entire bowl of pretzels and launches it at Poussey, who manages to roll away before getting hit. The glass bowl explodes against the wall and Piper pulls away from Alex with a gasp.

“What the hell are you doing?” Piper asks. “They’re gracious enough to let you guys play here! The least you could do is not trash the place! Who is going to pay for that?”

Flaca rolls her eyes and holds up her middle finger. Piper huffs, “Unbelievable,” but before she can go on a tirade, Alex pulls her back and they go on to trade biting kisses.

“Anyway,” Flaca continues, ““I’ll kick her ass if you want, but it’ll cost you.”

“Aw, if that’s your way of saying you care about my feelings and shit, well isn’t that sweet of you, Flaca Flan,” Nicky says in a voice dripping mock sweetness. Flaca is quick to deny it with a glare and her black-painted lips set in a hard line. “What fantastic progress you’re making! I can see you really growing and transforming in front of my very eyes, just blossoming into a woman.”

“Don’t make me smother you to death, Troll Doll.” Flaca swings a throw pillow at Nicky, who quickly deflects it, sending it flying and smacking Piper.

“Ouch!”

“Damn!” Poussey shouts. “Can any of y’all be any more distracting?”

“We could be naked,” Nicky answers. “Fuck, Vause and Chapman are halfway there.”

“Can we all please play like we actually give a shit tonight?” Flaca asks, making an effort to sound serious. “Ian is going to be here.”

Poussey mumbles something about how he should be out there supporting her at every show, not just when he doesn’t have better things to do. Just mentioning the molly-dealing DJ has Alex pulling away from Piper and angrily retell the story about Ian waltzing into the record store and trying to spin like he owned the place. If Alex threw a milk crate at him she was just sending him a message.

As much as Nicky hates Ian talks she is glad for the change of topic. She doesn’t know what she wants out of this thing with Lorna or if could be a thing outside of the diner. All she knows is she likes her and things are starting to happen. The thought of fucking it up scares her more than anything in the world.

 

…

 

Flaca and Poussey are sort of a dream team on stage. They might never admit it, but they have an easy chemistry when it comes to the teasing and goading between songs. Flaca has the voice, but lacks the stage presence while Poussey is a ball of energy, a complete crowd pleaser. Poussey gets Flaca to come out of her iron shell of indifference enough for a little banter and Nicky throws something out here and there while Alex remains reserved, but never disappears with how the front left corner of the audience swoons over her.

Their music is, well. They aren’t going to win a Grammy anytime soon and the idea of getting signed is laughable, but performing for a small yet appreciative crowd is better than sitting home and bored on a Friday night.

They start their set with “Tit Punch”, a song that never fails to get the crowd pumped. It’s loud and fast, opens with a bang (literally, Nicky bangs on the toms so hard it’s a mystery how she hasn’t broken one yet). The crowd is into it by the end of the first song and into the next few, jumping, ramming into each other, moshing, and it’s all so incredible. It’s incredible that they’re involved and enjoying themselves when they can easily be standing by the bar, wondering if the crazies on stage are high.

“And penguin says, “He’s not an eggplant, he’s retarded!” Nicky shouts and goes straight into a quick _ba dum tsh_ stroke of her sticks. Some are roaring with laughter while others in the audience are scratching their heads.

“And she punctuates her own lame joke too,” Alex drawls into the closest microphone, earning a few laughs.

“The technical term is rimshot,” Nicky explains. That earns the loudest crowd response yet and Nicky feels rightfully superior. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she yanks it out before even realizing. Wrong move.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Poussey shouts, nearly sashaying to where Nicky sits on her throne behind her kit, bringing her mic with her. “Nichols, are you checking your phone while we’re playing a show? Really?”

“And this is why we never get anything done,” Alex says to the audience. They laugh softly, so obviously smitten with her.

Poussey manages to wrestle Nicky’s phone out of her hand and nearly skips away, making sure not to fall off the small, crowded stage. “If anyone was wondering, Nichols’ password on her phone is Biggie’s birthday.”

“Thanks a lot, Chicken Legs,” Nicky mutters.

“What? These fine ass people can keep a secret, right?” Poussey motions to the audience and they all get hyped, jumping and cheering. She has them wrapped around her little finger. Poussey’s dark eyes scan over the newest text and the wide smile that cuts across her face is cause for worry.

“Is it from my mommy?” Nicky grabs the bottle of water by her feet, debating if she should drink it all at once or pour it all over face. The stage lights are both a joy and a hindrance.

“Ooh, a text from _Lorna_.” Poussey motions to the crowd and they “ _ooh_ ” on cue.  

Nicky usually sits behind her drums from start to finish, doesn’t need to constantly move around the way Poussey itches to, but at that she stands up as her mouth falls open a little. “Aright, alright! Gimme my phone back, will ya?”

“Not even a please?”

Nicky grits her teeth. “ _Please_.”

Poussey tosses the iPhone back and Nicky catches it with ease.

Right into the microphone, Poussey adds, “And be sure to tell Lorna her excessive use of emojis is fucking adorable, man.”

“Could we play something please?” Alex asks. “That’s why we’re fucking here.”

The crowd cheers as Nicky settles back down and reads the text:

 

_Hey made it to yr gig after all!_

 

Nicky squints at the audience. With the lights and the way all the people are packed in so tightly, it’s hard to make out the faces of those who aren’t in the first few disorganized rows. Just knowing that Lorna is out there, that she made the effort to show up, makes her heart speed up. Feeling the sudden need to show off just a little, Nicky spins one of her sticks between her fingers.

“Someone’s being quiet,” Poussey teases Flaca. Quiet might be an underestimation. Flaca has her arms crossed, eyes down, so tired, _disappointed_ , and refuses to acknowledge the people beyond the edge of the stage. “Yo, Death Eater Barbie, how ‘bout a Smiths cover?”

Flaca lifts her eyes to Poussey whose eyes soften, less playful, understanding.

“Something angry.”

Poussey gives her a _go on, girl,_ head nod.

“A Rush and a Push and the Land is Ours,” Flaca says. Then into the microphone, “Off of the Smiths’ _Strangeways, Here We Come_ album, totally underrated. And if any of you assholes disagree you can get the fuck out!”

The crowd cheers loudly, always do when Flaca comes alive. They always seem to revel in her energy most when she’s pissed off and screaming at them.

(One time there was a drunk who kept interrupting the show, shouting and slurring, insisting Flaca couldn’t sing for shit. Needless to say, Flaca got pissed and threw her beer at him, splashing a good few innocent bystanders. They fucking loved it.)

If Nicky starts twirling her sticks a little more, a little faster, hams it up a little more for the crowd, she isn’t totally showing off all for a certain waitress in the crowd, but _mostly_ for that certain waitress, yes.

 

…

  

Nicky texts Lorna after the show, suggesting they meet up. Imagine her surprise when Lorna isn’t alone.

Mario Morello (May-ri-o as Lorna pronounces it) has hair gelled into an almost mohawk (because his mom would kill him if he had a real one) and his face is dusted with freckles. The sleeves of his jean jacket have been torn off, showing off his skinny arms and his faded jeans are a little big with tears in the knees. Nicky liked the kid from the second she heard his name. Nicole Nichols by birth, she gets that shit. He also happens to be a huge fan of theirs, which might be the biggest surprise of all.

“How did you even hear of us?” Nicky asks as they hang around the loading dock behind the club. Flaca and Poussey are out near the curb, a good distance away, a cigarette and quiet words between them. Alex laughs the fakest ass “flirty” laugh, but whatever because it has a bunch of guys in black loading their gear into the van for them.

(Alex owns the rusty, piss poor van with a pinup girl painted on the side, but she refuses to be seen in it or standing too close, preferring her slick sports car.)

“I stalk the band tumblr,” Mario says. “All my friends are gonna be so jealous!”

“Bringing a kid to my gig, Morello?” Nicky asks with a sly grin.

“Best babysitter ever!” Poussey flies past them on her skateboard and Mario watches, absolutely enamored. His big brown eyes skirt over to Lorna who nods. He runs over to Poussey who hops off and lets the kid skate around.

“Now, I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your band,” Lorna says, “But _maybe_ you guys shouldn’t be playing an all-ages show if you’re gonna be all inappropriate and whatnot on stage.”

“Ay, it’s apart of our charm.” Nicky’s eyes find Mario as he attempts a kick-flip and stumbles forward. “Hey, Mario Morello! What’s your favorite song of ours?”

“Ummm.” Mario sways on the balls of his feet, looking so very thoughtful. “It’s a tie between Can’t Fix Crazy—” Poussey brushes her shoulders off coolly, that song being one she’s proud of, “—and, uh, oh yeah! Little Mustachioed Shit!”

“Mario!” Lorna slaps her palm against her forehead. “Honestly, your mom would kill me if she knew we were here right now and what’s on your iPod.”

“Take a break from your values, Aunt Lorna!” Mario jumps back onto the skateboard, earning a few encouraging woops and fist pumps from Poussey.

“Take a Break from Your Values is another one of our songs,” Nicky tells Lorna. Honestly, the delight she feels at the slight disapproval, but overall acceptance on Lorna’s face is out-of-control. “Your nephew is our biggest fan and you’ve never heard any of our music before tonight, have you?”

“To be fair, I didn’t even know this was your band. I asked him what he wanted for his birthday and here we are! This is a dream come true for him. If he knew you guys are regulars at the diner…”

At this point Mario has Poussey’s beanie slouched coolly on the back of his head just how Poussey had been wearing it moments ago. Poussey has a sharpie in hand, the cap between her teeth, as she autographs the skateboard and hands it to Mario who starts jumping up and down with excitement.

“Happy early birthday, little bruh.”

“Thanks boys,” Alex says as they finish loading up their gear. Alex ducks into the van and pulls out a limp cardboard box. “Hey Mario!” When he turns, Alex tosses him a t-shirt. There’s no band name on it because they still don’t have one, but there is a logo that matches the one on the front of Nicky’s bass drum.

Lorna squints, straining her eyes to see the logo. “Is that a—”

“Thanks, Alex!” Mario throws his jean vest off, tugs on the shirt that’s big on him and turns around so Alex can sign the back with a silver Sharpie. Poussey signs her name on his shoulder, drawing a crown over the P in her name.

“Good luck getting him to change out of that ever,” Nicky says proudly. After snaking the Sharpie out of Alex’s hand, Nicky signs the back of Mario’s shirt and even does a little doodle.

Alex tucks the cardboard box beneath one arm and throws the other around Piper. “So, diner time?”

“Not me, not tonight.” Flaca flicks her cigarette bud aside. “I’m out.”

“Aw, c’mon, Flaca le Strange!” Nicky shouts just as she starts walking toward the street. “Diner time’s tradition!”

“I’m not in the mood,” Flaca says glumly.

“Wait, Flaca!” Mario shouts, waving. “Your voice is amazing and I love you!”

His face goes beet red at the words that tumble out of his mouth too fast and the familial connection to Lorna becomes so much more obvious. Flaca attempts a smile, which is more than she would with everyone else around and in her crappy mood.

“How old are you, guapo?” Flaca takes the Sharpie Poussey holds out to her and signs her name on his t-shirt in her large, loopy handwriting.

“I’m turning eleven next month.”

“Jesus, eleven and hanging out at shows, that’s so old-school punk, like Verboten ‘80s punk,” Alex says with such respect for someone literally half her height. “Fucking badass, kiddo.”

“Hey Lorna, what would you think of Mario joining our band?” Nicky suggests.

The look on his face is just as priceless as the look on Lorna’s as she shakes her head. “No, no, no, no, _no_. But he’s grateful for the offer!”

“You’ve got good taste in music.” Flaca squeezes his shoulders and presses a kiss to his cheek, clearly making his life. “Keep it up. And when you like a girl you show up for her. You keep promises. And don’t embezzle or illegally download media.”

Flaca swaggers away, lights another cigarette at the end of the alley and disappears.

“What’s with her?” Piper asks. “Even on stage, she wasn’t herself.”

“Ian didn’t show up,” Poussey answer.

A grim silence falls over the group.

Lorna clears her throat and steps away when she realizes how close she’s standing next to Nicky. “Mario, we should probably go too. Say goodbye to the nice punk rock band. You are _so_ lucky your mom is working the night shift. We gotta get home before she does.”

Nicky frowns, nearly pouts. “You aren’t coming out for milkshakes with us?”

“There will be other nights and other milkshakes, I’m sure,” Lorna assures her. “Tonight was fun. See you around, Nichols.”

Mario goes around giving all of them a fist-bump (even Piper and she tries to make it explode at the end and when Mario doesn’t look impressed, Alex just laughs and kisses the top of her head) and Poussey makes him pinky swear that he’ll take care of her skateboard. Alex gives him a few CDs she finds in that cardboard box—Cheap Trick, Sex Pistols, Bad Brains—to further his music education. All throughout the goodbyes Nicky doesn’t take her eyes off of Lorna and Lorna doesn’t shy away from looking back.

 

…

 

Flaca and Ian break up.

It isn’t the first time they’ve split up and it isn’t the first time Flaca ends up on the couch in Alex (and Piper?) and Nicky’s living area for a week. She leaves her clothes draped over chairs and the back of the couch and her eyeliner and mascara all over the bathroom counter. The girl is a big believer in the Chocolate on Chocolate Can’t Complain philosophy so there’s chocolate milk in the refrigerator, chocolate bars and chocolate muffins in the kitchen cupboard.

There’s no explanation as to why she ends up there and no one asks. When Flaca isn’t in the room Piper is quick to point out that she doesn’t think Flaca’s refusal to acknowledge what’s bothering her is very healthy, but she’s mostly scared of her and won’t say anything to her. Alex and Nicky don’t see it as such a big deal. There’s no tears, no talking about feelings or bitching about boys, just a lot of watching and singing along to _Selena_ , music documentaries and Food Network whenever Poussey comes over.

“What if the kid was actually her kid and she just said he was her nephew for like obvious reasons and shit?” Flaca sits crossed-legged on the couch with a jar of Nutella in her lap, dipping a spoon in it and sucking it off the plastic.

“You know, your need to turn my life into one of your telenovelas is worrisome.” Nicky is next to Flaca, sitting upside down with her head hanging off the cushions and her boots pressed to the wall the couch is up against.

“There’s nothing on TV. Plus, I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Nicky lets a laugh slip at the irony of that. “No?”

“I saw Poussey walk out of an Army recruitment center.”

Instead of continuing to stare at the lights dancing in front of her eyes, Nicky sits up, maybe a little too quickly, suddenly dizzy. “Fuck… Maybe her dad was in there and she was meeting him or something?”

“Maybe she’s selling her soul to a government that doesn’t give a shit, that’s going to use her to fight a dumb ass war and eventually send her back here hopped up on antidepressants and without legs…if she comes back at all.”

Flaca is known for being intimidating, radiating a darkness that was instilled in her at a young age, but hearing her talk like that about Poussey of all people, Nicky doesn’t like it one fucking bit. Nicky handles it the way she handles most things—with humor.

“Shucks, how are we ever gonna win battle of the bands without her?”

Flaca faces her, menacing and deadly even with the bit of chocolate on the tip of her nose. “I’m serious, Nichols. That shit changes people.”

“Scary. It sounds like you care.”

_Crash!_

They both turn their attention to Alex’s bedroom door. With Flaca practically living on the couch, Alex and Piper have been courteous enough to move their fights into the bedroom, but again, the thin walls hide little.

“White Girls Gone Hulk Mode,” Flaca mutters. “I guess with Alex and Piper right down the hall you don’t really need cable television, do you?”

“This is none of your fucking business, Piper!”

“None of my business? Excuse you! We’re in a relationship, Alex!”

“It’s my life!”

“No, it’s our life!”

Alex’s footsteps thunder against the wooden floor before the door swings open. She stomps to the kitchen with Piper right on her heels. While Alex appears neutral, masking how she’s absolutely seething on the inside, Piper can’t hide a damn thing and how utterly pissed she is shows in ever crease and pinch of her face. Alex grabs a beer from the refrigerator and Piper squawks, outraged.

“Oh! Nice, Alex! You think by walking out here, the conversation is just over? Like Nicky and Flaca haven’t been listening to everything we’ve been saying.”

Nicky puts her hands up innocently while Flaca continues to spoon globs of chocolate past her lips, absorbed in the reality television quality drama happening in front of them.

“Fine, Piper. Tell me. What’s so wrong with our life right now?”

“Is that a serious question? For one, you’re a drug dealer.”

“You didn’t seem so bothered when we were taking selfies at the top of the Eiffel Tower or skinny dipping in the Mediterranean Sea.”

Nicky lifts her eyebrows at that. Flaca sticks her chocolate-covered tongue out in disgust. Both ignored by Alex and Piper, who are facing off.

“That was before, before we got settled,” Piper insists. “I know things with you guys and Red…I know this isn’t how you wanted it to happen, but your dad is offering you a chance to record, lay down _actual_ tracks in an actual studio and potentially a record deal—”

Alex laughs right in her face and Piper has never been so pissed, not even that time when Alex started dating and sleeping with her before breaking up with her other girlfriend.

“Pipes, let’s be real,” Alex says. “Have you heard us?”

“I gotta go with Vause on that one, Chapman,” Nicky interjects before she even realizes. “Realistically speaking, we are not recording deal material.”

Flaca scowls and bumps Nicky with her shoulder. “Speak for yourself, puta.”

“We don’t write and create to record in some fancy studio for a week and end up paying those dicks for the rest of our lives,” Alex says, stepping up on her soapbox. “We do it for the rush of performing, creating a rapport with likeminded badass people, giving them something they get, that gets them. Music is an outlet, a way of life. We do it because we have to, because we don’t know anything else. Not everything we do should be for profit. But I wouldn’t expect a Chapman to understand that."

It would be silent if not for Flaca muttering, “Mierda!” Instead of answering, Piper doesn’t make a sound, just marches back into Alex’s bedroom. Piper makes a racket as she empties the contents of her one drawer into a suitcase and throws the drawer loudly on the ground. Alex curses under her breath, chugs half her beer and leaves the bottle on the counter as she runs over.

“Piper, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Fuck you, Alex! You don’t know the first thing about my family!”

“And you know the first thing about mine? My father, if that’s what you want to call that son of a bitch because he sure as hell didn’t want anything to do with me growing up, he is offering all that shit because he thinks he can benefit from my talent. Not my musical ability, but how fucking good I am at moving large amounts of heroin across borders. That’s it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel stupid or just bad for you?”

Alex doesn’t know how to answer that and when she doesn’t after nearly a minute, Piper takes her suitcase and walks out the front door. This time Alex chases after Piper, but she comes home alone.

 

…

 

“So do you guys actually get paid to perform?” Lorna asks from across the counter. She has her elbows just on the edge, leaning forward, closer to Nicky, who’s sitting on the other side, eating a slice of cheesecake and, yes, it totally feels like cheating on her usual milkshake.

“Eh, sometimes. If we’re at Chang’s we’re mostly just fucking around on stage for fun. This weekend we’re driving out to Maine to play a fucking wedding.”

“ _Oh_. So you’re one of _those_ wedding bands.”

“Hey, watch it.” Nicky points her fork at the waitress with the teasing smile and sinfully red lips. “An old buddy of ours is the groom. He did a pretty good job getting his shit together, a lot better than the rest of us. Now he’s getting married and asked us to play, says our music helped him through some shit.”

“Ah, I see that, yeah.” Lorna nods enthusiastically. “I too found that one song, what was it called? ‘A Whole Other Hole’, yeah, super inspiring.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that song is a female sexual revolution anthem and potentially about how as human beings we aren’t inherently whole and maybe we aren’t meant to be. Yes, I can be deeper than a puddle.”

“In all seriousness, that’s beautiful, Nick.”

Only Lorna Morello can use a flowery as shit word like “beautiful” and not only does it make Nicky feel all fluttery with pride, but she also actually believes her.

“Send me a postcard or something once you get out there.” Lorna refills Nicky’s cup of coffee without having to be asked, mostly to keep up the appearance that she’s working.

“I’ll send you a postcard if you make me a milkshake for the road.”

“Deal.”

 

…

 

It’s tradition to see Red before they leave for a gig. When Red suggested Nicky do something meaningful to her and Nicky got the band together, Red unwittingly took all of them under her wing. Their first practice ever was above Red’s bakery and after the racket they made, not once since.

Piper usually attends all their gigs, but not this time and the empty space at Alex’s side isn’t lost on any of them. For reasons yet to be disclosed, even Poussey seems out of it, maybe a little down, like her heart isn’t in it when usually, Poussey does everything with her heart. Flaca and Ian are back together so she’s back to her mostly indifferent and mildly grumpy self. Nicky notices all of this from her spot in the back corner of the van, banging on her bongos, but doesn’t see the need to point out any of it.

"Ten Things I Hate About You ruined Cheap Trick," Flaca says strongly. She's met by multiple groans. "What? If you disagree with me I will fucking end you! That song deserves better than a '90s teen movie soundtrack. A fucking cover no less. Cheap Trick's rooted in blues, rock transitioning into punk rock with that Beatles sensibility, but edgier. They had it right on so many fronts, but how is that song best known? The song that played when Heath Ledger made out with fucking Julia Stiles."

“Don’t talk about Heath like that!” Poussey warns her. “Yo, if we ever decided to pull a Shwayze, of all the celebrities ever, I’d want us to be the Ledgers.”

“Whatever,” Flaca says, “But you can’t deny that Julia Stiles fucked up Dexter.”

Poussey nods. “You right, you right. But remember what Red always used to say? Nothing and no one can ruin shit for you. You can only ruin shit for yourself.”

“Tegan and Sara.”

They both nod in agreement and assume a respectful silence for all the amazing things that have passed. Alex groans from where she’s stretched out on the seat in the back of the van, less vocal in a discussion she would otherwise be dominating, drunk and looking to drink more.

 

…

 

They stop over at a really sketchy motel for the night and have a dinner of burgers and beer at the even sketchier roadhouse. Flaca always makes it a point to go through the jukebox titles thoroughly. She feeds coins into the machine, selects and just as she walks back to the table Nicky and Poussey are at, Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” starts playing. Nicky’s amused by the strange choice, but Poussey doesn’t react, which might defeat the purpose.

“All they have is party hits and shit,” Flaca says sourly. She rests her elbows on the edge of the table and turns to Poussey expectantly. “It’s your jam, loser. Aren’t you gonna bust out your Carlton?”

Nicky sputters with laughter. “Flaca Selena Gomez Gonzales—”

“That’s not my fucking name, dick!”

“Did you just dedicate a song to Poussey?”

“I already put my money in the machine and like I said, the song selection was like a disgrace. I had to choose something.” Flaca shrugs her shoulders and turns her attention to Poussey. “What the fuck is going on with you anyway?”

Before Poussey can come up with a response, a skimpily dressed waitress walks over with a tray of fruity drinks. The waitress explains that the drinks are paid for and from a line of sleazy guys who wave and raises their beers. They are really hitting on the wrong table.

“Send it back,” Flaca tells the waitress. “One, I don’t drink weak, fruity shit. Two, I don’t drink weak, fruity shit from fuckboys who probably tuck date rape drugs in their tube socks. No.”

“Could you tell them all of that?” the waitress asks timidly.

“A _no thanks_ should suffice,” Nicky says. “Eh, it’s flattering, sure, but we aren’t interested. Period.”

The waitress nods and retreats. Less than a minute later, one of the men makes his way over to their table, swaying a little with every step, clearly intoxicated. He wiggles his thick eyebrows at Flaca, flirting with death.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks. “Didn’t like the drinks? I will get you ladies whatever you want from the bar, just name it.”

“No hablo Inglés,” Flaca says innocently, shaking her head and her hands.

“Uhhhhh, same-o,” Nicky adds.

“Man, why don’t you just back the fuck off?” Poussey finally snaps out of whatever trance she’s been in since leaving New York. The man steps back.

“Whoa, little dude, I’m just talkin’ to your sexy friends, bro.”

“Little dude? Bro?”

Poussey laughs darkly and within seconds she’s on her feet and getting in the man’s face, ready to start a fight. Flaca reacts quicker than Nicky, sliding out of the booth and holding Poussey back. Nicky curses when she notices the man’s friends jumping up off their barstools. She bounces up, grabs both Flaca and Poussey and steers them toward the door. Of all the times Alex could have chosen to pass out back at the motel, of course it had to be this one.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Flaca asks once they’re out by the van. Poussey violently shoulders both Flaca and Nicky’s hands off her shoulders and kicks at the van’s tire. “And everyone thinks I’m the hothead who loses her cool too easy?”

“You are,” Poussey replies. Flaca makes a beeline for the keyboardist, but Nicky grabs her by the shoulders and turns her back around.

“Chill out, count to ten, pace around,” Nicky says soothingly. “Give me a second with P Master Temper over here.”

Flaca huffs loudly, mutters something in Spanish, but does as suggested. She folds her fingers behind her head, stares up the sky and walks back and forth a few times. Then she gives up and lights a cigarette. Poussey remains still, leaning back against the door of the van and staring down at her Jordans.

“Alright, what’s eating you?” Nicky asks. “I know I joke about you and Flaca having something beyond a stage-wives relationship, but you weren’t defending her honor in there. You stupidly, _stupidly_ picked a fight with a guy twice your size. What gives?”

“I don’t feel like I’m living my life for anything.”

“Who says you have to live for something? I’m warning you now, Smiles, if this all stems from some quest to figure out the meaning of life, you’re just going to drive yourself crazy.”

“What if I want to live my life for something? What if I _need_ to?”

“What do you have in mind? A life lived in service to your country? Enlist? Because when Flaca camped out at the apartment, she was watching this online show about the treatment of women in the military and that shit is fucked up.”

“My daddy enlisted when he was eighteen. So did my granddaddy before him. If it was good enough for them…”

Nicky nods, seeing the determination behind Poussey’s eyes. “We do what we gotta do, huh?”

“What kind of shit advice is that, Nichols?” Flaca pops out of fucking nowhere and kicks Nicky’s boot. “The government is a fucking soul-sucking monster! I’ve known guys who thought the Army was the way out of our neighborhood and it was, for a while, but then they just end up right back, but different. Worse. Fucking broken. Death isn’t the only way to lose someone.”

“Man, why are you all up on me about this?” Poussey stands up and sizes up Flaca even though the Latina nearly towers over her. “Why do you care?”

“Of course I care, estúpido!” Flaca shouts in her face. “I spend almost every day with you idiots. After three years, you don’t think I care?"

Flaca’s voice rises until she’s going off in Spanish, pacing back and forth. Nicky tries her hardest to hold back a laugh as she takes out her phone and hits record because there is no way Alex and Piper are going to believe it happened without concrete proof. Poussey just smiles and it’s the first time it touches her eyes since they left New York.

 

…

 

Piper texts Nicky:

_How’s Al?_

Nicky replies:

_Ask her yourself_

 

…

 

They should get trophies or the key to fucking Portland, Maine, for successfully keeping Alex sober throughout the wedding and enough to get through their performance at the reception.

As far as weddings go, it’s nice. It all looks like something ripped from the pages of a wedding magazine. It’s nice to see that a former junkie was able to claw his way out and lives a life that involves standing in an all-white suit in a clearing that overlooks a tranquil, idyllic lake and sliding a ring on the finger of his hot bride. It’s good to see how far he’s come. It’s good to be alive to see it.

Nicky’s very favorite part has to be seeing all the older guests, the family members, holding their hands over their eyes when the band opens with their loudest song probably, Pinkman’s favorite _,_ “Lesbian Request Denied.” The bulk of the guests are young, twenties to thirties, and they’re the ones who crowd the dance floor, making their hands into horns and thrusting them into the air. The groom and bride’s first dance is to their slowest ballad, “Tall Men with Feelings.”

The performance is an admittedly vanilla version of their usual, an attempt to be appropriate for the wedding setting. They even write a new song specifically for this gig, “It Was the Change,” a song that’s meaningful to them all and where their lives are now, but upbeat and fun. Once they turn the stage over to the DJ who opens his set with the Funky Chicken, Alex goes straight to the bar.

Nicky goes to find the restroom and walks in on a few bridesmaids (she knows they’re bridesmaids because they’re all wearing the same god-awful custard-colored dresses) chasing lines of heroin on the edge of the sink. It isn’t an unfamiliar sight in the least.

“Hey,” one of the girls says, a predatory look in her eyes as she sucks on her fingers. “You look like you know your way around a line. Want a taste, baby?”

And fuck does Nicky want. She wants, wants, wants.

But she also thinks. Nicky thinks of the last time she had a little more than a taste. It feels like ages ago now. That time was also in a public restroom, but the girl she was with wasn’t so forward, looking like sin itself. That girl from the last time was softer, some kind of angel. The memory of that night is mostly a blur, but she remembers that girl so clearly, so vividly.

 

 _You gotta stay awake. You... You’re scaring me_.

 

Nicky doesn’t even answer the bridesmaid before she walks out. She keeps walking, putting one foot in front of the other over and over until she’s back with Poussey and Flaca, who are fighting over cake the way they fight over music and everything else. Nicky feels better with Poussey and Flaca because she knows both of them would gladly smack her around for entertaining the idea of using again. Nicky takes a deep breath of fresh, Maine air and lets the toxins go.

 

…

 

Before they head back to New York, Piper finally calls and Alex kicks them out of the crappy little two-bed fleabag motel room, needing privacy. The other three oblige and peruse a few souvenir shops.

Flaca tries on every hat she can get her hands on as Poussey decides between a shirt with a lobster drinking a lager on it and a shirt featuring a lobster and _got pot?_ underneath. Poussey tries to get Flaca to try on a lobster hat with large black button eyes, claws and everything, but the dark-haired girl refuses, threatening to take it and hit Poussey with it if she doesn’t cut it out.

Meanwhile, Nicky twirls the rack of postcards, trying to find one that isn’t some boring Maine landscape or sailboats. Nicky finally finds one that says: _Greetings from Maine! So many fucking lighthouses you won’t believe it_! Nicky couldn’t have said it better herself. She bypasses Poussey and Flaca, hitting each other with Made in Maine throw pillows (about to get kicked out of the gift shop probably), buys the postcard and a pack of stamps.

Using the top of the nearest public mailbox as a flat surface to write on, Nicky scrawls across the back of the postcard:

 

_Maine is Maine. Lobster rolls meh. The milkshakes here got nothing on the milkshakes back home. Damn I miss those milkshakes._

_xx N_

 

She addresses it to “my favorite waitress” and drops it into the box.

 

…

 

When they finally get home, Piper is waiting with her suitcase. Piper and Alex stare at each other for a long, tense moment. Then embrace. A lot of the time shit is so fucking complicated, especially between them. Other times it’s as simple as that.

“Welcome home, Al.”

“You too, kid.”

 

…

 

Nicky’s new favorite thing is saying, “surprise me” when Lorna asks what kind of milkshake she’ll be having. Ever since, Nicky has tried an array of different cold, liquid goodness. Some she absolutely loved (the Oreo cheesecake milkshake is a winner) and there are others (yeah, you pineapple milkshake) that Nicky wants to wipe from her memory and will never touch ever again.

As she’s slurping up a strawberry banana milkshake when Lorna says, “Hey Nichols, can I ask you something? And if you don’t wanna answer, that’s totally fine too. It’s all up to you. The ball is in your stage.”

Nicky swallows and licks her lips slowly. “The ball is in my stage?”

“Yeah. Oh, you know, the expression. Like if we were playing some sport that requires a ball and the question is the ball and it’s on your side of the stage.”

Nicky laughs softly. “You mean the ball’s in my _court_?”

“Yeah, yeah, you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Go for it, kid. Ask away.”

“I was just wonderin’…who’s Red?”

Honestly, Nicky had been expecting something different. _So are you gay_? _Are you seeing anyone right now? Why do you really hang around here so much?_

What’s really on Lorna’s mind is more difficult to articulate. There’s no laughing off a question like this and mumbling something about milkshakes. No one had asked her that before. Nicky doesn’t even remember mentioning Red to Lorna. Then again, Nicky seldom has control of the things that comes out of her mouth.

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer,” Lorna continues. “You just mentioned ‘Red’ once or twice…”

“Have I?” Nicky asks sharply.

Lorna meets Nicky’s suspicion-colored eyes with her little red mouth slightly open. “Just slipped out, I guess? This person just…the way you talk about them…sounds like you really admire 'em and I was just curious…”

Nicky can see how Lorna looks like she thinks she said something wrong

“You know how I told you about my mother?” Nicky asks. Lorna nods attentively. “Red was like my actual mom, sorta like my mentor. I was in a really bad place and Red helped me get my shit together, gave me a job, kept me out of prison. I’d say she saved my life, but she’d, I don’t know, spit on me for making it sound like she’d gone soft for a lost cause like me.”

Nicky’s smile is so easy and warm and nostalgic before turning into a frown.

“Red, uh, she passed away not too long ago and, yeah…” Nicky tightens her fingers around her coffee mug and makes an angry fist with the other. “Now I talk about her without realizing, I guess." 

Lorna reaches over and lays her hand over Nicky’s clenched fist. She immediately uncurls her fingers and is surprised when Lorna takes her hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Thank you for tellin’ me that, Nick. It’s real brave of you, real brave.”

Nicky doesn’t know what to say so she doesn’t say anything. Even as Lorna settles in and starts talking about her own mom, also deceased, she doesn’t pull her hand away. Nicky sits quietly, listens attentively and is sure to give Lorna’s hand a squeeze when she needs it.

 

…

 

Poussey starts volunteering at a soup kitchen.

She loves it. All the other volunteers and especially the veterans who eat there love her in return. She takes the time to get to know the regulars, learns their stories, and makes them laugh. Above all, Poussey makes sure they know they’re appreciated. Because she’s a persuasive little shit, Poussey gets Nicky, Alex and Piper to help out a few times.

“Holy shit.” Nicky rips the hairnet off her head, letting her thick waves of hair fall freely down her back, at the end of a meal service. She stands with Poussey as they look out across the room of people. “We fed all these people.”

Poussey beams. “The fuck do you mean _we_? You didn’t do shit in the kitchen.”

“No, but I helped serve! We can’t all be Barefoot Countess fanatics.”

“Barefoot Con-tess-a, motherfucker,” Poussey corrects her. “Don’t you go disrespecting Ina Garten in front of me! She’s a culinary genius! Get it right, get it tight, yo.”

“But, really, nice chops in the kitchen, P-Dub. Red would’ve been proud.”

“You too, NX2.”

 

…

 

One day Nicky asks Lorna if she wants to do something that doesn’t involve her serving her food or refilling her coffee and Lorna says, “Sure.” Is that a date? Does Lorna’s agreement mean she likes Nicky just as much? Both questions that wouldn’t even cross Nicky’s mind if not for Poussey and Flaca yapping and putting that shit in her head.

They decide to go to a movie and Nicky lets Lorna choose what they see, which, let’s be real, is the universal sign for _hey, I really fucking like you_.

Lorna picks her up because Nicky doesn’t own a car (“it’s fucking New York City, who the fuck needs a car?”) and when they get up to the ticket counter, Nicky pulls out her wallet, but Lorna shoves it away.

“Oh no, you ain’t paying,” Lorna says. “You tip too much as is.”

“Fuck, not this again. Kid, you know about my mother and my cash situation.”

“Yeah, well, I work hard for my money, break a lot of dishes, go through shoe insoles like you wouldn’t believe, _and_ I wanna spend it on you.” Lorna pulls out her credit card and hands it to the teenager in the ticket booth. “This one’s on me, Nichols.”

No one has ever said that to her before. Nicky is used to picking up the tab whether she offered to or not. Now here’s this girl who waits tables for a living not offering to pay, but leaving Nicky no choice, but to be on the receiving end. To hell with keeping a respectful distance, Nicky leans into Lorna and whispers a thank you so quiet you’d need to be a breath away to hear it. And Nicky’s certain the way Lorna shutters is a complete and total figment of her imagination. Wishful thinking at best.

They arrived early so they spend the time before the movie talking about nothing and everything at the same time. Lorna eats popcorn by the handful, licking her fingers occasionally; making Nicky licks her lips more than once.

Less than halfway through the movie that’s spent expending way too much energy reinstating that respectful, friend-like distance, Nicky’s phone vibrates loudly in her pocket. She checks it. Poussey calling. Nicky dismisses the call. A second later it vibrates again. Poussey calling again. Nicky dismisses that too. When a flurry of texts hit her phone, Nicky gives in checks them. All from Poussey.

The first:

_SOS NICHOLS! ANSWER YR DAM PHONE_

Then:

_DAMN SON ANSWER YOUR PHONE_

Then:

_NICKY FUCK CALL ME I NEED HELP MAN_

 

And probably the most intriguing

_NICKY GOTH BARBIE GONE LOCO_

 

“Christ.” Nicky touches the back of Lorna’s hand and it almost startles her. She can’t help, but wonder if Lorna was so absorbed in the movie that her touch brought her out of it too quickly or she freaked out at the fact that Nicky touched her. Nicky motions to her phone, whispers that she’ll be back and maneuvers her way through the dark, taking her phone out into the hall.

“Fuck, Nicky! It’s about damn time you quit ignoring me!”

“Listen,” Nicky says. “You might not be on a hot date right now, but one hot second ago I was sitting in a dark movie theater with a very hot Lorna Morello, which you know, so if you’re bugging me for your own personal amusement—”

“Flaca is eating Taco Bell.”

Well, that’s a surprise, definitely not what Nicky had been expecting.

Nicky lets out an exasperated breath. “What? Flaca hates Taco Bell on principle. Hence, why I call her that. She is the very one who says as a real Latina she knows all the best, authentic Mexican joints in all five boroughs and to shoot her if she ever so much as steps foot in a Taco Bell because she’s probably gone rabid. What the fuck?”

“We were at Camera Obscura, catching Sophia _kill_ her show, kickin’ it with like Boo and Watson and just a bunch of random assholes when BOOM! Guess whose sad dick jockey ass is getting a lap dance from a Cher drag queen! But, uh, I guess his _lap_ is getting a _lap_ dance, not his ass, right?”

Nicky groans. “Fucking Ian.”

“Bingo! Not only is she drunk Flaca, she’s drunk, _pissed_ Flaca! The girl went full Flaca la Vampiro Queen! She grabs the poor dancer and throws her to the ground and goes off on Ian! We got kicked out, they fought s’more, all dumb nonsense because _drunk_ and now we’re at Taco Bell and she ordered like this Taco Party Pack and the bitch ain’t lookin’ to share.”

“Fuck.” Nicky scrubs her hand down her face. “It’s good of you to stay with her, P. You don’t think you could get her back to Brooklyn or my place?”

“I ain’t gonna lie, Nichols. I’m not completely sobered up. Just following her was like running the New York Marathon. The fuck am I supposed to get her anywhere right now?”

“Fuck, fine. Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”

Nicky honestly dreads the idea of leaving right now, tries to reason that the sight of Flaca eating fucking Taco Bell is going to be worth it, but with all the damage control she undoubtedly has ahead of her, staying feels like the easier, more fun option, but she knows, ultimately, it isn’t an option at all.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Lorna’s voice startles Nicky out of her thoughts. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

“Uh, how much of that did you hear exactly?”

“Enough. C’mon.” Lorna takes Nicky’s hand and it sends such a thrill through her. There’s less romance to it, more urgency than anything, but Nicky’s willing to take what she can at this point and circles Lorna’s knuckles with her thumb a time or two.

 

…

 

Apparently, the Taco Bell Party Pack includes twelve crunchy tacos and Flaca is on taco number five by the time Nicky and Lorna walk in through the door.

Poussey, bleary-eyed and ready to pass out, sits across from Flaca, almost too awake and certainly too calm, in the corner booth of the deserted Taco Bell. A sturdy cardboard box filled with tacos sits on the table between them along with jumbo-size drinks, crumpled wrappers and empty sauce packets. Flaca keeps her head down, stuffing her mouth with a mixture of shell, crisp lettuce, meat and cheese.

“Well, someone’s having a sexy night.” Nicky gives Poussey’s shoulder a pat before sliding in to sit next to Flaca, saving the space next to Poussey for Lorna. That has to be the definition of chivalry, right? “I’m glad to see you’ve finally embraced the deliciously lowbrow beauty of Taco Bell.”

Flaca continues to chew, mouth full, and flips Nicky off.

“Fuck Ian,” Nicky says. “I know you don’t like to talk about him with us or anything that makes you feel the least bit weird or uncomfortable or human, but I’m just going to put it out there. It’s not you, it’s him, yada, yada, yada. If you spent any more time moping I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Jesus, Nichols.” Lorna kicks Nicky’s leg lightly beneath the table and twists the cross of her necklace between her fingers. “And you wonder why she doesn’t wanna talk to you about him?”

“I’d like to see you try, puta.” Flaca crumples up the wrapper of her latest taco victim and throws it at Nicky, hitting her square between the eyes.

“There’s our girl,” Nicky cheers. “Tell me you clobbered the asshole. Got a good sucker punch in there? Alex has wanted to high kick the bastard in the crotch since he remixed ‘Fool Me Once’ without even running it by any of us.”

“There was a lot of shoulder slapping then BAM! One pop to the eye!” Poussey reenacts the punch with the exaggerated swing of her arm accompanied by the popping sound of her mouth. “I guess disk jackass is gonna be wearing sunglasses in the club tomorrow night or more concealer than usual.”

Flaca fishes another taco out of the box and unfolds the noisy wrapper.

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Nicky says. “What’s with the fucking Taco Bell?”

“I wanted to eat and it was the closest thing still open. Why not?” Flaca stretches her jaw as wide as possible and takes a bite of the taco.

“Right, silly me. That’s completely logical even if it, oh, goes against everything you believe in. Christ, rebound season is going to be a joy for you and a joy for us to watch.”

Nicky isn’t stupid enough to try to take the taco from her as Flaca goes in for another bite without swallowing the first, but she does slide the box over to Poussey who’s clearly intoxicated by how much effort it takes for her to close the interlocking flaps. Nicky nods to Lorna and Poussey, asking for a little space. Poussey nods, slides a little on the seat. Lorna gets the hint and stands. Poussey takes her soda cup and the box of tacos over to the self-serve soda station with Lorna following, making small talk.

“Poussey’s drunk, which means she’s honest,” Flaca says. “I wouldn’t leave my girlfriend with that skinny fucking truth teller.”

“Your girlfriend? Oh, so you do have some interest in pussy, huh?”

“More than Jersey Shore o’r there, probably.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.” Nicky leans back in the poorly upholstered seat, way worse than the diner, and watches Flaca devour a fast food taco from the corner of her eye. “C’mon, you and Ian break up almost as often as Alex and Piper. Is this really worth the moral-breaking calorie-heavy cry for help?”

When Flaca looks up from her half-eaten taco, she looks so fucking vulnerable and Nicky fucking hates it because this is not who she is and not how she should be acting, especially because of some dude. The urge to smack her is almost unbearable.

“What’s wrong with me?” Flaca whispers. “I mean, I know I’m no saint. I’m abrasive and a bitch and I obviously wasn’t doing it for him…”

“Fuck him!” Nicky slams her fist against the table. “You know who you are, you own it. I know a few guys who are into that and a fuck truck of girls.”

“Shut up, Nichols.”

“Are you going to cry?” Nicky teases, not to be malicious, but mostly because she knows Flaca, knows she can handle it, maybe even needs it. “It’s cool if you cry. Morrissey cries all the fucking time, I bet. Nightly. Listening to Nico or Patti Smith.”

Flaca rolls her eyes and glances to where Poussey goes down the line of soda options, adding a little of each into her cup. Lorna talks to her animatedly and Poussey responds with just as much enthusiasm. They’re both easily described as friendly so it shouldn’t surprise anyone that they make quick friends.

“Bitch, are you _still_ trying to get with that?” Flaca asks. “It’s been like a month. Usually you spend an hour trying to trick a girl into sleeping with you and then move on to the next. What gives?”

Nicky kind of shrugs and it turns into a lazy stretch. “I’ll have you know I was gettin’ somewhere. Then you ruined my hot date with your dramatics and makin’ Poussey paranoid… She cares just as much as you do, y’know.”

“Careful, Hair. Your date ain’t over yet and I’m sure I can find at least a dozen other ways to further ruin it on the drive alone.” Flaca talks as if rising to some challenge Nicky unknowingly posed and that’s how she knows Flaca will be just fine if not tomorrow then the next day and if not the next day then eventually.

“Try and I will delete Selena off the DVR.”

“No you won’t.”

Nicky curses because, shit, she’s right and the worst part is Flaca knows it.

“Fuck this Taco Bell shit.” Nicky pushes off the table as she gets to her feet. “Let’s go get pizza. Real, _authentic_ Maritza approved pizza with a real, authentic Italian girl…even if she likes pineapple on her pie…”

During the drive, Flaca does the exact opposite of what she threatened to do. It might be the alcohol still in her system or the freshly broken heart, but Flaca _tries_ to make Nicky look good in front of Lorna and Flaca trying to be nice is like the Beast from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast trying to smile. It’s pretty awkward and only gets worse when Poussey tries to help.

All the effort pays off because just as the sun comes up and they linger outside her building, Lorna tells Nicky that she’s a good friend and that’s the first time anyone has ever told her that in her life. Lorna Morello is two for two in one night.

 

…

 

The next day at practice, Poussey shows Nicky her phone and the recently added contact: _Lollipop Lorna_.

“Damn, Nichols, how long did it take you to get her number and Poussey got it over the course of a night?” Alex teases.

“ _And_ I was _wasted_ ,” Poussey adds. “I’m pretty sure I was showing off my self-serve soda treat yo self skills and we talked about Wizard of Oz continuity errors and late night infomercials.”

“Hey, what’s the meaning of this?” Nicky asks. “Lollipop Lorna? The fuck?”

“Because how much you want to lick her is giving all of us secondhand embarrassment at this point.” Flaca shows a piece of paper with scribbles all over it to Alex, who scans the writing, takes the paper and crumples it in her hand. “Cabrona!”

“Lollipop like the Lollipop Guild. You know.” Poussey holds her hand up above her head, indicating her height. “We short and we own it!”

Nicky isn’t very impressed by the explanation, snaps the phone away and changes it to Lollipop Guild Lorna. Not because she’s jealous, no. Just for clarity’s sake, of course.

 

…

 

“So it’s your one day off from the diner and you’re watching your sister’s kids?” Nicky tries to be discrete as she walks in a circle around the Morello family’s living room, inspecting the happy family photos hung on the custard walls.

“No,” Lorna says. “ _We_ are watching my sister’s kids. And taking them to the pumpkin patch! There’s a difference.”

“Sure. You’re lucky Mario is fucking cool. Maybe cooler than you, Morello.”

Lorna pinches at Nicky’s side and Nicky makes a big fuss like she’s trying to get away, but too lazy to actually move. Truthfully, having Lorna’s hands on her in any capacity is something Nicky could use more of and more often.

“Hey Nicky!” Mario shouts, jumping down from one step to the next.

“Ayyy, Super Fan!” Nicky grabs a worn book on the end table and tosses it to Mario who catches it and reads over the cover. “It’s from Flaca. When she heard Alex gave you some music homework and didn’t include any Smiths.” Nicky clicks her tongue. “Strictly on a borrow basis. She wants it back when you’re done, along with a paragraph about why the Smiths are the best band ever, which, eh, is debatable. Don’t forget to spell check. She’s a lunatic about that.”

“You and your band spoil him.” Lorna lifts the two-year-old out of his bouncer and rocks the toddler from side to side. It’s not exactly maternal, but practiced. “Little Giovanni here is gonna be a little Tony Montana for Halloween. It’s a Morello boys’ tradition. He’s got a little tux, a big cross necklace with all the little rhinestones and an itty bitty plastic machine gun. We stuff his pockets with paper money and candy cigars. Yes, we do, don’t we, Gio?”

“Jesus Christ,” Nicky curses. “And she’s poppin’ out another one?”

“Another boy too,” Mario clarifies. “I wanted to be Robert Smith from the Cure for Halloween, but mom won’t let me wear guyliner. She’s scared it might turn me gay or something.”

Lorna tenses when she hears that and though it’s a small change in her demeanor, Nicky notices and resists the urge to give her a comforting touch.

“What are you going as instead?” Nicky asks.

“Edward Scissorhands.”

“Close enough.” Nicky stands from where she’s perched on the arm of the couch. “Hey Morello Junior, you know being gay doesn’t work like that, right? I will gladly draw you a diagram with a key and everything if you need it.”

“I know.” Mario nods in the same manner as his aunt. “Like Born This Way. Lady Gaga.” Mario’s eyes widen like the kid from Home Alone. “But don’t tell the band I listen to Lady Gaga! They just play her on the radio all the time." 

“Your secret is safe with me.” Nicky mimics fastening a zipper across her lips. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Alex totally digs Lady Gaga. She’ll never admit it, not even on her music snob deathbed, but she secretly does. There’s nothing wrong with liking Top 40 music. You like what you like, y’know?”

Lorna relaxes and it puts Nicky a little more at ease. It takes _forever_ to get Mario into his winter coat (because his mom would surely kill them if they let him run around in just a CBGB shirt that’s old, has holes in it like it once belonged to someone who actually saw the place during its glory days) and it takes even longer to get Little Giovanni’s car seat into the car and the stroller in the trunk. If there’s ever been a case against having children it’s probably this.

When they reach the pumpkin patch outside the city, Lorna pushes the younger of the two nephews in his stroller while Nicky walks sluggishly at her side and Mario runs ahead of them in search of what he deems is the perfect pumpkin. After twenty minutes, Mario chooses a pumpkin that’s not too tall and not too wide. Nicky tries to pay for it, but Lorna refuses, almost offended by her offer. It’s still new for Nicky, for someone to refuse her money, and she likes that.

Back in the car, Mario tells them that he intends to carve the band’s logo into his pumpkin and Lorna curtly tells him that he will absolutely not. Their logo is sapphic in nature and Nicky holds her tongue instead of encouraging him like she’s tempted to. Lorna’s already shooting Nicky a look that says _this is all your fault, Nichols_. But then Mario starts singing their song “Imaginary Enemies” and Nicky thinks, yeah, she doesn’t mind taking the blame for this one.

 

…

 

It’s hard to decide what’s worse—hearing Alex and Piper fucking or hearing Alex and Piper fighting. Tonight it’s fucking and it’s insufferable. Nicky has to get out of the apartment and there’s no question about where she goes.

Nicky visibly deflates when she doesn’t see Lorna in her cute little uniform struggling to carry a tray and narrowly avoiding a collision with innocent bystanders. Still, Nicky’s glad to be out of the apartment and goes to their usual booth by the window. She pulls out her trusty little pocketsize notepad and reaches for the pen balanced behind her ear. The notepad is mostly inappropriate doodles, a scribble here and there, nothing too earth shattering.

Songwriting is a collective effort. They’ve tried to sit together and write a song from nothing, but that ended in screaming and shouting and headaches. They’ve formed a system where they write individually and come together to sort through it, develop what they agree is good and tease Alex about the cheesy shit that’s clearly about Piper. Poussey brings such soulfulness to the process and Flaca protects the sanctity of the English language and the art of grammar like the three-headed demon dog that guards the gates of hell.

Then there’s Nicky, who’s never been the best with words unless you count being aggressively persuasive or defending her title in original oratory on her high school speech and debate team. All Nicky can bring to the table is past experience, that swirling pit of darkness that forever exists inside of her, the daily struggle to pull herself out of it, the relief that comes with triumph, but also the foreboding feeling, knowing it begins again every time she wakes up.

“What can I get you?” asks the waitress. After a moment, Nicky notices that the woman is pregnant, perhaps ready to pop, and her nametag reads _Franny._ She fixes Nicky with a pointed stare too direct to be polite, but she isn’t her waitress so Nicky doesn’t pay as much attention as she maybe would have otherwise.

Wait, _her_ waitress? What the fuck is that? Nicky shakes her head at how ridiculous the inside of her head can be.

“Uh, just coffee’s fine.”

Franny doesn’t bother writing that down and continues to eye Nicky suspiciously. “You sure? You aren’t looking for _something specific_.”

“Nothing you could serve up on a plate or in a glass.”

“Ah, Lorna, my kid sister.”

If Nicky were mid-sip of anything, she’d be choking, spitting it out, spraying everything. When Franny’s face splits into an easy grin, Nicky relaxes somewhat and realizes, yeah, she can see the slight resemblance. The fact that she’s pregnant and Lorna talks about her pregnant sister all the time should have been the biggest giveaway. All the happy Morello family photos were taken a while back, of kids with missing teeth, '90s garb and two healthy, mobile parents. Now, Franny is taller and tanner with sharper eyes. She seems so tired, more grounded in reality, like she’s seen the horrors of the world maybe so Lorna wouldn’t have to.

“That obvious, huh?”

“No, you’re obviously here for the mediocre milkshakes.”

Jesus. It’s one thing for the band to notice (Nicky will not admit to having a crush, no, no, no, not in a trillion fucking years, motherfucker) but it’s an entirely new ballgame of embarrassment for Lorna’s coworker-slash-sister to not only notice, but also call her out on it. Franny leaves long enough to grab a coffee pot and mug, then sits across from Nicky, who glances around, inwardly screaming _help me_! But the place is practically empty, not a friendly face in sight.

“Who’re you?” Franny demands to know, so blunt, and it comes about so naturally. No segue necessary.

“Uh, Nicky. And you’re Franny.” Nicky’s eyes flicker down to the nametag pinned to an identical uniform just to be sure, but doesn’t let her eyes linger. Something tells her Franny wouldn't appreciate it as much as her younger sister.

“The pregnant sister she bitches about no doubt.”

“I’d say it’s more in the ballpark of poorly concealed hero worship, but what do I know, right?

Franny stares right at Nicky for a long time, dissects her, picks her apart with each tick of the analog clock behind the counter. “You should come over for dinner some time. Lorna never brings _friends_ around ever. Family’s important to us Morellos. What about you? You got family?”

Nicky’s mouth falls opens in the most unattractive way, she’s sure, trying to search for words that don’t come automatically. She closes her mouth, swallows hard and looks right into Franny’s soul-crushing eyes that are hungry for a hint at how to break her.

“Depends on your definition of family. I’ve got my band.”

Nicky Nichols prides herself on reading people. Her arsenal includes Gaydar, Dyke Drama Detector and the Bullshitting Bullshitter Alert. She can’t really tell if Franny’s poker face is just the best ever or Nicky’s too caught up in her own self-realization. Shit. Her band is her fucking family, not by blood, but by choice. The existence of choice makes it so much more meaningful in a way.

The rusty bell on the door chimes and Franny gets to her feet in a way that’s impressive for someone so heavily pregnant. Before she waddles over, Franny gives Nicky a look from over her shoulder. “I mean it. You should come over sometime. _And_ it’s server. Your favorite waitress. _Server_ is PC these days.”

Nicky nods dumbly. Not that she’s ever thought of meeting Lorna’s family other than the cool nephews, but Nicky expected more animosity and the whole gay thing to be more than an elephant in the corner of the diner. As she scratches her ballpoint pen against a clean page in her notepad, Nicky entertains the possibility that Franny, all maternal instinct and ball busting, recognizes the loneliness in her sister and how it matches the loneliness in Nicky.  

 

…

 

Poussey makes a face between confusion and skepticism. “She invited you to dinner?”

“Right?” Nicky explodes with anxiety, has to stand and move around. “What the fuck is that about? They’re straight up Goodfellas Catholic Italian. Lorna wears a fucking crucifix for fuck’s sake. And this Franny obviously knows I wanna get to know her sister better…”

Alex snorts, arms draped over an acoustic guitar. “In the Biblical sense.”

“She’s playing you, Hair,” Flaca says, rolling her eyes because it’s just _that_ obvious. “Ever heard of reverse psychology? She offered because she knows you won’t ever take her up on it, went for the Oscar Del La Hoya KO before you could even get in the ring.”

“Damn,” Poussey says, impressed. “You sure Betty Boop’s sister isn’t actually the Godfather?”

Flaca gives Nicky a terrifyingly pleasant smile with teeth and everything. “That’s why you should take her up on the offer.”

“Fuck that!” Nicky shouts, shakily going through her jacket pocket and pulling out her crinkled pack of cigarettes.

“Come on!” Flaca presses. “Show her you’re serious. Don’t back down! If you’re this big a coward we might have to re-evaluate your place in this band. Ain’t no room for pussies in this band.”

“Or there’s already too much,” Alex points out.  

“Right.” Flaca throws Alex a deadly look. “Because if we haven’t tossed Vause out on her overrated ass after _all_ the whiney songs she writes about Chapman if you can call that writing…”

Alex spits cracker flakes at her and Flaca nearly pounces, but Poussey jumps between them, trying to push them away from each other. Poussey calls out to Nicky for a little assistance, but the drummer just sits there on the armchair in a trance-like state, twirling one of her battered, dirty sticks between two fingers.

 

 _Show her you’re serious_.

 

Is that what she is? Serious? What is there to be serious about? Spending time with Lorna or sleeping with Lorna or being in a committed, exclusive relationship with Lorna? Nicky’s never done that before. What does that mean? Nicky isn’t even sure that Lorna is even into girls _like that_ or just doesn’t have many friends and entertains Nicky’s flirting at 2am when there aren’t any other customers. If this is what Franny meant to happen, mission accomplished.

“Yo! Simmer the fuck down!”

“Dick,” Alex mutters under her breath.

“Ironic,” Flaca says, using every opportunity to pull out her grammar snobbery.

“Oh wait,” Alex hums, “Ian might still be with you if you actually had one.”

Alex has gone and done it, provoked the one person that could possibly take her in a fight. Flaca hops the whole damn coffee table and both Nicky and Poussey leap into action to hold her back. Alex just stands there with a smug smile and her arms crossed.

“Too soon, Vause,” Nicky chides. “Not cool.”

“She says shit about Piper and messes with Piper all the time!”

“Not in like a mean way,” Flaca says innocently, with the puppy dog eyes she pulls out from time to time. It’s almost laughable or maybe a trick to lower Alex’s guard so Flaca can go full Hulk. One should never pull it past her. “White Girl’s entertaining as fuck.”

Despite the tension, Nicky has to laugh. “Could you say that again and can I record it? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about Chapman.”

Poussey’s tense line of a mouth softens into a smile. “I’ll take three copies.”

“Ian’s an idiot,” Alex says, after a long pause. “He once came into the store and tried to make a case justifying Daft Punk’s relevance, talking about the Grammys they won. I told him, one, the Grammys are bullshit; two, Daft Punk doesn’t deserve to have _punk_ in their name and three, to get the fuck out.”

Poussey groans in disgust. “Remember that time Chang let him DJ? Like, damn, son, how many Lorde songs you gotta remix?”

Nicky chuckles. “And that time Ian and fucking Bennett got trashed and did that ‘emotionally cathartic’ Fleet Fox’s shit at Chang’s Karaoke Night? Booed off the stage before the chorus and all was right in the world.”

“Why do I always fall for the ones with shit taste in music? Why the fuck did you assholes let me date someone with such shit taste in music?” Flaca shoots for anger, but it just comes out sad. “Ian was just like, the first person that made me feel, fuck, I don’t know…smart? Wanted?” She’s quiet, slumping down on the couch. “And he drives a fucking Vespa.” Flaca groans. “A fucking vespa with a ‘DJ Power’ sticker on it. The fuck was I thinking?”

“Well, now you’ve got us assholes to make you feel smart and wanted and also embarrass the shit out of you in the process.” Nicky sits beside Flaca and hangs an arm around her neck just to get shouldered away roughly.  

“He wasn’t good enough for you anyway,” Alex says quietly. She looks at Flaca as if to ask _we cool?_

Flaca waits, purses her lips. “Yeah, well, Chapman’s too good for you.”

Alex laughs. “Touché.”

Moments like this make Nicky wonder if the others think of this band that’s barely a band as a family the same way she does, but won’t ever admit unless under some heavy influences or backed into a tight corner. They’ve definitely got the dysfunction, especially with how often they threaten to tear each other apart and end up watching Selena for the fiftieth time, screaming wrong, wrong, wrong _so wrong_ lyrics to “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” and pissing off Flaca beyond coherence.

 

…

 

Nicky sort of finds herself trapped between a rock and a hard place, and not in a sexy way at all. She doesn’t know what’s happening between her and Lorna. She doesn’t know what she wants to happen with Lorna other than sex, but, fuck, maybe a kiss first? The toughest pill to swallow is that she doesn’t know what Lorna wants out of it, what Lorna even thinks is happening between them or arguably the worst, if Lorna even wants in the same way Nicky fucking wants.

So Nicky stops answering Lorna’s texts and starts avoiding the diner. Again.

 

…

 

Nicky tries to keep busy, hangs out with Poussey and Flaca more often.

(And those two have been hanging out more often, a fact that Nicky takes great pleasure in pointing out up until they realize calling her out on her recent lack of visits to the diner shut her up quick.)

Flaca shows up to help at the soup kitchen once or twice. She’s worked in kitchens before, one being Red’s. Before the band was even an idea, a fire in a little bodega-slash-taco shop ended in its closure and Gloria, Flaca’s former boss, mother figure and old friend of Red’s, did everything in her power to find new work for her employees. Red laughed at the idea of a girl who’s only ever made Mexican food working in her Russian bakery, but took her in.

(At first, Red refused to call her Flaca.

“Your mother named you Marisol, that’s what I call you.”

“Isn’t that a little hypocritical, _Red_?”

“Looks like Nicky has some competition in the Little Girl Big Mouth department. Back to work! I needed those syrniki in the fryer yesterday!

But eventually, Flaca earned the nickname even in the hard, cold eyes of an old Russian woman with Heat Miser hair.)

Whenever Flaca volunteers, helps out in the kitchen and serves out front, she smiles politely and engages instead of being her usual standoffish self. She doesn’t tone down the eyeliner, but does wear the hairnet without complaining and Nicky sneaks a picture or two for proof that Flaca can at least play pleasant human, which makes her that much more intimidating.

“Seriously, Washington,” Nicky whispers. “You think a chick like Flaca is here, helping the less fortunate out of the goodness of her black hole heart? You’re saying there’s no other conceivable reason she would be here?”

“Yup.”

“Bullshit.” Nicky twirls a chopstick between her fingers effortlessly. “I’m just going to state the obvious and say you should seriously consider getting on that or letting her get on you.”

“Man, Nichols…”

“Dude, she’s wearing a hairnet _for you_ right now! Look!”

“No, she’s trying to keep busy, get over Ian. Yo, just because Alex and Piper have the switch turned on _again_ and you’ve got your cute little waitress don’t mean the rest of us gotta pair off like some Noah’s ark. Now that’s bullshit.”

“Why so defensive, Mohawk Head?”

Poussey goes on and on, denying she’s getting defensive in a very defensive manner, but Nicky’s still stuck on the part where Poussey referred to Lorna as _her_ cute little waitress. It's weird to think it and even weirder to hear it from someone else. And damn if Nicky doesn't love the sound of it. 

“Yeah, yeah, shut up already. And it’s cute little _server_ , not waitress. Waitress isn’t PC. Get it right, get it tight, Smiley.”

“Damn, Nichols. Just march your ass back to that diner and talk to her already.”

Nicky feels the need to go on the defensive, but pushes it away, pushes all thoughts of Lorna out of her head and goes over to annoy the hell out of Flaca (or the hell back into Flaca). Nicky still doesn’t have anything figured out and refuses to weight Lorna down with it (her).

 

…

 

Alex and Piper ask Nicky to meet them at the diner for an early lunch. Alex says it’s because they’re already there, the flavor of the month is pumpkin spice (what the fuck else would it be in October?) and they feel it would be disrespectful to try the pumpkin spice milkshake or pumpkin pie without her.

(Sidebar: it isn’t even Halloween yet and Piper asked Alex to go home with her to Connecticut for Thanksgiving. A month away and Alex is already freaking out and looking to Nicky and whoever else to slyly convince Piper it’s a bad idea.)

Nicky is apprehensive because the diner is Lorna’s domain. If she’s trying to avoid the girl, going to her place of employment is the dumbest decision ever. But she reasons it’s early enough and Lorna usually works evenings or late at night. Then Nicky walks in and Lorna is there, laughing with a couple of customers in a corner booth, so genuine, when if Nicky were a server she’d consider poisoning a few choice regulars (mainly her band) on a daily basis.

Piper’s open mouth smile makes her look like she’s seconds away from jumping out at Nicky with a “Surprise!” Alex, on the other hand, looks like she’s preparing to watch the penultimate episode of her favorite TV show.

 Nicky shakes her finger at Piper, who just cozies up to her girlfriend in their usual booth. “You are a dick.” Then Nicky shakes her finger at Alex. “And you are a dick accomplice probably. And I am outta here.”

“Bitches gots to learn,” Piper says. “Come on, Nicky. Lorna asks about you sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Plus, it’s getting creepy knowing you’re in the next room listening to us having sex. If you’d quit dodging your feelings, at least you’d have somewhere to go.”

“Like it’s ever stopped you.” Nicky fishes out her box of cigarettes and taps the bottom a time or two. “Fuck both of you, yeah?”

Nicky spins around and heads for the door, pressing a cigarette between her lips. She gets as far as out the door and out onto the sidewalk before there’s a heavy hand on her shoulder and, of course, it’s Alex turning her back around.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Nichols?”

“Not the question, dear giant jackass.” Nicky lights her cigarette with a cheap lighter she doesn’t remember buying, but always seems to have on her. “The real question is what the fuck do _you_ think you’re doing setting me up like this?”

Nicky focuses on her cigarette, but can’t seem to inhale deep enough.

“What was the song?” Alex asks.

Nicky tries, takes a long, slow drag of her cigarette and lets it go just as slowly. “What? There’s no song. Are you high, Vause?”

“ _The song_ , idiot. What song played in your head the first time you saw Lorna? I know you have one.” Alex licks her lips and adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, halted by hesitation. Then in a much softer voice, she says, “The first time I saw Piper, shit… Sunday Morning by Maroon 5.”

Nicky laughs uncontrollably and Alex fixes her glasses, having forgotten she just fixed them a moment ago and they sit in the exact same spot on her face.

“That’s a weird subconscious song selection, especially for a self-proclaimed snob about all things music.”

“It’s embarrassing is what it is.” Alex laughs along. “Fuck, I don’t even think it was a Sunday and definitely not morning.”

 “All Apologies,” Nicky says surely. “Nirvana. That’s the song. Shit, I might have even mumbled some of the words...”

Alex laughs, much easier when it’s at someone else’s expense and not her own. “Holy shit. That’s fucking dark.”

“That was the genius of Kurt, though. He always wanted to keep it vague, let it mean whatever you want it to mean.”

“Hmm, a philosopher junkie once gave me a pretty genius piece of advice—show her.”

“How the fuck does that even apply?”

“Quit running. Show her how you feel.”

“And if I fuck it all up? If she isn’t even into me like that?”

“Then you’ll be doing exactly what you’re doing right now, but with less uncertainty, which I know is the reason you’re so restless lately and your insomnia is worse than usual with a side of anxiety. It’s also why you’ve been holed up in your room and you’ve been playing like shit.”

Nicky looks down at the cigarette between her fingers that’s almost half ash at this point. She taps it and watches each tiny particle float away. The Old Nicky, Nicky after Rehab, Nicky after Red, but Nicky before Lorna, would have walked away right now. The Nicky before that, she never would have found herself in a situation like this. Things aren’t totally different or completely changed, just altered. And there’s no choice, but to keep moving.

“So what do I do?” Nicky asks. “March in there and kiss her?”

“No, you fucking animal. You might want to use your words first.”

Nicky laughs, steals one last taste of her cigarette before tossing it down and grinding it out. “You do see the irony, right? That we—the four of us—fucking write songs and make music yet we’re all pretty inarticulate when it comes to expressing feels in like, normal speaking voice?”

“It also happens to be the only thing all four of us have in common.”

“Hmm, I see matching tattoos in our future. Fifty bucks to whoever can convince Flaca to get a tramp stamp.”

“Fuck matching tattoos, more like matching jail sentences and prison uniforms.” Alex scoffs at the very mental image. “Now, quit stalling, Nichols.”

Nicky points to her nose and then to Alex, who gives her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Not giving herself a moment to second-guess what she’s about to do, Nicky pushes her way back into the diner. After a moment of looking around, her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest, Nicky realizes Lorna is nowhere in sight.  

 

…

 

Ian comes crawling back to Flaca.

They spend all night screaming back and forth. The next day, when Flaca shows up at practice, she doesn’t announce that they're back together like so many times before. Instead, she shows them the new power ballad she wrote. She calls it “You Also Have Pizza (Fuck Taco Bell).”

 

…

 

Let’s face it. Nicky has always walked on eggshells around Franny.

There’s just something about her that says if you were trapped on a boat in the middle of the ocean she wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, eat your flesh and make a blanket out of your skin. That and she could probably sniff out a rat like a hound dog bred to hunt. The vibes coming off of her since realizing Nicky’s interested in more than the daily specials haven’t been the least bit friendly.

Nicky has no choice, but to cross paths with Franny when Poussey is craving brown butter salted honey pie (“You fuckers take forever to get to practice so Poussey started watching Food Network and it’s the daytime shit, not the cool shit like Chopped, but only when Aarón Sanchez judges and that’s not racist, it’s fact!” Flaca shouts in the background) and she threatens to lock Alex and Nicky out of the practice space if they don’t bring food. Alex sits impatiently behind the wheel of her expensive car and honks the horn, making for certain Nicky knows they don’t have all day.

“Nicky, right?” Franny never sounds very impressed, least of all by the wild-haired drummer in ripped jeans with a flannel tied around her waist. “How can I can help you today?”

“Uh, I’m here to pick up an order for—”

“Thirsty Bird?” Franny asks. Nicky just nods. Yup, that’s Flaca and Poussey.

(“Thirsty Bird” is a song they wrote that’s basically the same line over and over again, an attempt at the whole psychedelic folk genre inspired by the time Piper accidentally got high and used banana pudding to paint a mural of a bird onto the wall in Alex and Nicky’s living area. Piper kept saying she was so dehydrated that she could drink an ocean over and over. Hence, the name.)

“So, I haven’t seen you around lately.” Franny’s fingers fly across the buttons on the register with practiced precision. She pauses for a moment, winces, but then shakes it off and continues. “What? Did you get bored of the milkshakes?”

The pang of guilt or something hits Nicky like a truck.

“It’s not the milkshakes. I love— _really like_ the milkshakes. It’s not the milkshakes’ fault, really.” Nicky pulls out her wallet and hands over a fifty. If they managed to go over fifty bucks on diner food, Nicky’s going to collect the second she gets there. “I actually miss the milkshakes…”

It sort of feels like a confession because it is.

Franny stops what she’s doing and gives Nicky a pointed look. “You miss the milkshakes, huh? Well, tell the milkshakes yourself.”

She knows. Franny _knows_ , which shouldn’t be this big of a shock because Nicky has never been one for subtly, especially when it comes to something or someone she wants. The surprise is mostly in the form of Franny not being pissed. No glare? No angry slurs or warning Nicky to keep her dirty dyke hands away from her naïve baby sister? Her confusion is written all over her face, but Franny doesn’t owe her an explanation and she sure knows it.

Franny counts out her change, but before she can hand it over to Nicky she shutters and the coins spills out onto the floor. Franny suddenly slumps forward, leaning on the counter for support. Nicky stares dumbly and thankfully they aren’t the only two people in a boat, but in a crowded diner and one of the other servers rushes to help Franny around the counter and into the nearest chair. Nicky continues to stare, looking even dumber than before, when she notices how the bottom half of Franny’s uniform is wet.

“Holy shit,” Nicky mutters. Then panics. “Holy shit!”

“Relax,” the other server says, and Nicky is surprised to see she’s talking to her and not the pregnant woman clearly in pain, pale as a sheet and gripping the edge of the table as if for dear life. “The contractions are still pretty far apart.”

“Four minutes.” Franny grinds her teeth and Nicky remembers the woman is a seasoned veteran at this. “Enough time to get to the hospital.”

They look at Nicky expectantly.

“Me?” Nicky’s voice cracks, but she’s too busy trying to be calm to feel embarrassed. “You see, I came here with my friend and it’s her car—”

“Listen!” Franny shouts, super effective at silencing Nicky. “I have spent _months_ putting up with Lorna whining about you day in and day out, _especially_ after this fucking _third_ disappearing act you’ve pulled on her so the least you could do is drive the angry pregnant sister to the goddamn hospital!”

Nicky’s first thought is _third_? Then Franny cries out in what sounds like truly awful pain (and did she not learn the first and second two go-around Jesus) and Nicky is willing to give her anything she could possibly want. Oh, you would like the moon, terrifying pregnant woman? Easy. Lemme just go get my lasso.

The other server and Nicky both help Franny to her feet and walk her out to Alex’s fancy ass car parked out front. If she weren’t dealing with a high stress situation that’s been sprung on her out of the blue, Nicky would probably enjoy the look on Alex’s face as they help this pregnant stranger into the back of her car. A stranger giving birth right on the custom leather interior is probably the worst nightmare Alex didn’t realize she had.

The ride is a really weird, awkward one where Alex tries to remain calm behind the wheel, Franny curses like a sailor and digs her nails into Nicky’s arm and Nicky calls Lorna on the phone for the first time ever.

Lorna picks up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Morello! Hey! Hi!” Nicky curses how fucking eager she sounds.

“Nichols…”

Fuck, the sound of her voice makes Nicky feel as dumb as her friends keep saying she is. Why has she been depriving herself of this, of Lorna, for so long again?

“You’re calling me. Like literally calling me. On the phone. I thought…”

“That I’m a jerk? Then you’d be right,” Nicky says softly. Franny clears her throat, no discretion whatsoever, and Nicky remembers where she is. “We’ll talk later, but, uh, your sister would like a word…or a dozen…uncensored.”

“What? Franny? Why—”

Franny claws at Nicky’s hand and rips the phone away from her. Franny jabbers on and on and the car is so quiet (because the Dead Brains CD in the car stereo wouldn’t exactly set a calming atmosphere for a women ready to welcome new life and fuck the radio) and they can hear the Morello women talking over each other. Damn is she gonna owe Alex big after this one and the silently furious-slash-fucking nervous look Alex keeps shooting her through the rearview mirror assures her it isn’t a possibility, it’s a promise.

 

…

 

They make it to the hospital without Nicky having to try to play midwife on the fly and ruining the upholstery much to everyone’s relief. They get Franny into a wheelchair and a nurse wheels her off somewhere, leaving Nicky and Alex just standing around because they aren’t family in the slightest. Alex, because Alex can be a dick sometimes, asks, “Can we go now?” And if it were just a random woman off the street, Nicky would be down to bail, but she’s Franny, Lorna’s sister and she doesn’t have anyone else at the moment so they wait.

Alex throws up her hands and takes her phone outside to tell Piper and the band what’s going down. Meanwhile, Nicky sits and drums her hands against her thighs, a classic pocket beat that makes her calm down a little, gets the adrenalin to subside. Go-go and punk funk were always a favorite spectator sport of hers. The multitude of drums in unison and those exotic drum patterns, it’s one of the rawest things she’s ever heard and it’s easy to lose herself in it.

A flick to her arm brings her out of the self-induced hypnosis and she suspects Alex until she looks up and Lorna is in front of her with her hip jutted out to one side and her arms crossed. Nicky smiles goofily because fuck has she missed her. Just seeing her is enough and not all at the same time.

“You’re still here?” Lorna asks suspiciously.

“Oh look, I am. Did you think I’d just bail on your pregnant sister who’s, frankly, more terrifying than terrified, I’d say, before you got here?”

Lorna tears her eyes away from Nicky, softening. “Can you blame me? You just disappeared on me! You keep disappearing on me. I thought something might have…I don’t know what I thought…”

She doesn’t have to say it. Nicky knows. Though she doesn’t quite understand the depth of Lorna’s concern since they haven’t known each other that long, Nicky knows Lorna has seen her at her lowest low and the fact that she chooses to care when everyone else wouldn’t bother, it means so much.

“You missed me, huh?” Nicky asks, lightening the mood.

“Not the word I would use…” Lorna’s eyes sweep around the busy waiting area before finding Nicky again. It’s incredible how she can go from aggressive to coy in seconds.

Nicky takes a deep breath and really wishes she had a cigarette right now, something to focus all of her nervous energy that’s buzzing through her body. “Lorna, I…I suck with words that aren’t set to iambic pentameter or meant to piss people off for fun, but, I…you…fuck…”

Lorna laughs a little. “For the record, I feel the same way.”

Nicky’s eyes go wide. “What about that fiancé?” Lorna’s surprised Nicky would even mention that and shakes her head. Zero hesitation. “Fuck. I’m a dweeb.”

“Yeah, you kinda are. A dweeb in a leather jacket and a punk band.” Lorna gives her this loving little smile that makes Nicky’s palms itch to get her hands on her, to finally have that red lipstick smudged against her own lips. “But I should tell you, I’ve never…with a girl…but you…”

They’re both talkers. It’s hard to get either of them to shut up when they’re going on and on about the easy things—likes and dislikes and favorite things. So it seems fitting that they both struggle to talk about this here and now—feelings and vulnerabilities. Luckily, talking isn’t all necessary, not yet.

Disregarding who might be around to gawk, Alex or the Morellos be damned, Lorna seats herself in Nicky’s lap (and if she thought her skin was buzzing from using her thighs as makeshift drums, _this_ , fuck) and her eyes flicker up to meet Nicky’s, dark lashes ghosting over shy doe eyes. Nicky holds her eyes until their mouths meet, a kiss Lorna initiates. Soft and consumed with desire, it rivals anything and everything Nicky has wanted and imagined in the last forever.

When Nicky pulls away, it’s with a breathless laugh. “Hmm, I think this calls for a celebration. A donut milkshake celebration.”

Lorna presses her forehead to Nicky’s, arms around her neck, so very amused. “Y’know, Nichols, you really don’t have to drink one of those things as an excuse to come by and see me. 

Nicky’s mouth falls open and twists into a smile. “ _Oh_. You think I only come around for you, like you specifically?” Nicky wiggles her fingers into Lorna’s side, making her squeal, probably too loud for a hospital waiting area. “Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you people I like the freaking milkshakes?”

“Could you be any thirstier?” Alex mutters, just walking up and seeing them. “Hey, I found the Reckless Innocent here kicking the Coke machine, no adult supervision whatsoever.”

Mario is at her side, wearing their band tee with the sleeves crookedly cut off, an earphone in as he busily reads the book Flaca loaned him. Alex keeps eyeing it like he should be reading up on Minor Thread (“Don’t smoke, I don’t drink, don’t fuck / at least I can fucking think”) or something on Johnny Rotten and punk ideology. Lorna slips out of Nicky’s lap and into the seat beside her even though Mario probably wouldn’t care, either too young to realize or more progressive than most kids his age and most adults triple his age.

“That’s my stage name. Alex gave it to me,” Mario says matter-of-factly. “Aunt Lorna, Alex told me kids were jerks to her about clothes and stuff when she was in school too and now Alex is the coolest person I know!”

“Really, Mario?” Nicky clutches her chest over her heart, mostly in response to how smug Alex looks right now.

The little boy shrugs. “Alex is getting me a record player for Christmas.”

Nicky nods, sucking on her bottom lip. “Fair enough. But I could give you Flaca’s phone number for Christmas and how cool would that make me, right?”

Lorna’s phone rings and whatever she reads makes her scramble to her feet. “Mario, we gotta go meet your mom and your newest little brother.” She starts to walk away, but stops and looks at Nicky from over her shoulder. “I’ll text you.”

“I won’t disappear,” Nicky promises. She fucking _promises_ and can’t think of the last one she’s made before this. She can’t think of a promise she’s made and meant to keep.

Lorna just smiles and nods, dropping a hand onto Mario’s shoulder and ushering him away, but not before he gives Alex a fist-bump and Nicky a wave. Nicky watches the two Morellos walk down the long hospital hallway and don’t look away until Alex starts humming "No Apologies" and that shit deserves a shove.

Later, Lorna texts Nicky saying that Franny had a beautiful baby boy she named Angelo Morello (“Jesus Christ, those poor kids”) and when Nicky asks if she considered naming the kid after her emergency chauffeurs, a little Nicholas Alexander Morello perhaps, Lorna tells her that Franny thinks Nicky’s “alright” and “don’t push it, Nichols.”

Mission she didn’t even realize was a mission accomplished.

 

…

 

A few days later, Nicky plays "No Apologies" for Lorna and the face she makes, lost on how it applies, is priceless. Nicky just laughs at how fucking cute she makes a complete lack of music knowledge and kisses the confusion away.

 

…

 

They headline Chang’s Halloween Bash and it’s so lame with fog machines and fake cobwebs and dudes paid to jump out of dark corners at unsuspecting partygoers who shriek and spill their cheap beer all over the floor already slick with fake blood and other questionable fluids. The band playing after them drops out (food poisoning or Flaca’s black magic probably) so Chang gives them free reigns of the stage, which they spend fucking around and teasing each other more than performing.

“Alright! Alright!” Poussey, wearing a red track jacket, a gold chain and a distinct, oversize brown hat, grabs hold of the microphone and motions for the crowd to settle down. “Before this next song, I gotsta call out Feardrops on her costume choice.” Poussey gives Flaca a look over, brows furrowed. “Tell me you aren’t supposed to be Pocahontas. That shit’s low even for you and I’ll remind you that you asked me if I could float _the first day_ we met.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Flaca shouts. “I come from a fucked up family, okay!”

“Her outfit looks nothing like a slutty Pocahontas,” Nicky points out, sitting behind her kit in her orange prison outfit with the sleeves rolled up. “Flaca is every white girl and Vanessa Hudgens at Coachella, right? Irony and all that.”

“I’m Ted Nugent!” Flaca shouts, looking between her bandmates, completely forgetting their audience of maybe a hundred. “So Ted Nugent gets to wear a loincloth and moccasins on stage, screaming mad and he’s a rock god, but I wear this and moccasins on stage, screaming mad and I’m a slut, bitch, false representation of Pocahontas and offensive to Native Americans?”

“System’s fucked.” Nicky twirls her one of her sticks and then her eyes go wide. “System’s fucked! How’s that for a band name?”

“Veto,” Alex says into the microphone. She’s dressed as a sexy Bettie Page-esque ‘50s pinup girl, mostly because she absolutely refused to do matching couples costumes with Piper, who had her heart set on Disney’s Frozen and is sweating on the side of the stage in her Queen Elsa outfit (to Polly’s slutty Anna).  

Poussey keeps looking at Flaca like she doesn’t quite buy the Ted Nugent thing and when Flaca notices, she glares. “And who are you supposed to be? Fucking Pharrell? You wear that shit daily, tonta.”

“You really think I’d go that basic?” Poussey rips off her tear-away clothes, full on Magic Mike action, and underneath she’s wearing a Falcon costume (“the only nonwhite Avenger and future Captain America in the comics, but mad sidelined to sidekick status by the movies, duh”) complete with a cape and drawn-in abs. She throws her hat into the audience and pulls on a pair of goggles. “I’m Falcon disguised as Pharrell, bitch!”

“Did you buy that in the children’s section like the rest of your clothes?” Flaca asks.

“Okay, let’s play something,” Alex says impatiently, rocking her fingers against the string of her bass. “Why the fuck are we just standing around talking? That’s bullshit.”

As they start to play “Bora Bora Bora” a new song Nicky had a hand in writing, she winks off to the side of the stage where Lorna and Mario are watching the show if you can call this one. Mario looks like Adrien Brody’s character in _Summer of Sam_ —mohawk a foot off his head, dark eye makeup, spiked collar, Union Jack Flag shirt and safety pins through the tears in his jeans—a look that’ll surely disappear before he sees his mom next. Lorna is dressed as a sexy yet still totally appropriate police officer to Nicky’s naughty inmate, complete with handcuffs that they are totally going to use eventually.

When Poussey runs from the back of the stage and leaps off the edge with arms straight out at her sides as if she can actually fly and is caught by the awaiting crowd, Alex motions for Mario to run out onto the stage and lowers the mic stand so he can scream along with them, thrashing about, shifting his feet awkwardly in a little dance.

Nicky looks at all of them from her throne at the back of the stage. This is her band, her friends, ultimately, her family. She would never admit it in front of them, of course, but collecting this little group is one of her better decisions if not her best decision in a life of pretty terrible ones.

 

…

 

“Nice show, with the lights and the sweat and the exposing my nephew to early hearing damage probably, especially from the ‘VIP section’. It was fun.”

“Yeah, you like that?” Nicky rounds her arm around Lorna’s shoulders, kisses her hair and mutters, “Officer Morello, I’m on 40 ounces of furlough and I gotta confess I’ve been a very bad inmate. You should probably consider taking me in before I do something even worse.”

Lorna hums in amusement and glances over to where Poussey is teaching Mario how to play the Michael Myers piece of music while sitting in the back of their van out of earshot. Lorna slides her hands up and down Nicky’s arms and says, “So you got any plans for Thanksgiving?”

And that’s not where Nicky was expecting Lorna to take this, especially since it’s nearly a month away. (It becomes a little bit more apparent why Lorna and Piper get along so well.)

“What do you usually do?” Lorna asks.

Nicky thinks of autumn in Connecticut with gold leaves covering fields that stretch for miles and red in the trees. She thinks of sneaking off from the grand feast as her family played host, hiking up a ruffled dress and sneaking carrots out to the stables where she’d complain to the horses about how much she hated the showy little acts her family put on, ignoring her in the process.

She thinks of that one Thanksgiving the first year the band was a band, where Red invited them and their families to join her and hers. They introduced Poussey’s dad to Alex’s mom and Nicky spent the entire get-together teasing them that at the rate their parents were flirting they’d be stepsisters before they even cut into the turkey.

Then there’s that Thanksgiving they don’t talk about. When they crashed the Gonzales’ lunch and were weirded out by the tamales next to the cranberries, but polite enough not to say anything. Then creepy Uncle Fernando showed up unexpectedly. They left before they could say grace and that was the first time Flaca spent a week on their couch, watching _Selena_ on repeat.

They never actually talked about it, the pure fear that lurked behind Flaca’s glazed eyes when the man tried to hug her. The three of them physically stepped up, blocked the man from getting anywhere near Flaca and they spent Thanksgiving doing shots of tequila and singing _Dreaming of You_ at 3am, an unspoken promise that Flaca always has a place to run to when needed.

“Uh, I just hang out with the band usually,” Nicky replies. “But this Thanksgiving Alex is meeting Piper’s family, which, yikes, you couldn’t pay me to tag along to that train wreck waiting to happen. Flaca and Poussey are doing this soup kitchen thing that I may or may not be lending a hand at.”

“Well, if you have some time you should stop by,” Lorna suggests. “My house, that is. My sister makes a big fuss about cooking and my dad and my brothers make a big fuss about watching the football. It was Franny’s suggestion, really, and, oh, you could meet Baby Angelo! He’s gettin’ so big. A very large-headed child, that one, but Franny says he’ll grow into it. And you don’t have to stay all day neither. Just drop by for a bit if you like…”

“Hmm, are there gonna be milkshakes?”

Lorna rolls her eyes. “Sure.”

“No,” Nicky says, and suddenly feels like a shithead when she sees Lorna’s face drop and sink into utter humiliation. “I mean, I’d love to drop by _and_ I’ll do you one better. I’ll bring the ice cream and the donuts and we will make our own fucking milkshakes.”

Lorna lets out a quiet little sigh of relief. “Heavy cream also goes into those heart attacks you like so much.”

“What can I say?” Nicky slides both of her arms around Lorna. “I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

Lorna doesn’t even look to see what Mario is up to before grabbing Nicky by the front of her costume and kissing her hard.

 

…

 

 

“Fuck Fucksgiving Fest!” Flaca shouts, waving a crumpled flyer in her hand. “ _We_ should be headlining that shit or at least opening for the WAC Pack. Who the fuck is opening for them anyway? If it’s fucking Sideboob…”

Nicky leans across their favorite table in their favorite diner, steals the flyer away and falls back, her shoulder knocking into Poussey as she does. Nicky irons out the creases the best she can and looks over the neon orange paper.

“This lineup is weak. Fucksgiving Fest, more like the Low Self Esteem City Tour.” Nicky scoffs and starts folding the flyer into a paper airplane. “To answer your question, says the Chickening is opening for WAC Pack. Red always said those chicken shit assholes were ones to look out for.”

“To clarity—” Poussey holds up a finger. “—That crazy Russian said the Chickening was and I quote, amazing, smarter than us, more talented than we’d ever be and the only course of action would be to kill them, eat them and absorb their power.”

“Ma always did get a little too competitive. And that’s why we had to put an end to poker nights in the bakery after hours,” Nicky says fondly. “How the hell did WAC Pack get on the bill?”

“Crazy Eyes killed someone for someone or Boo is blackmailing someone probably,” Flaca replies, thumping her fist against the table. “Whatever. I don’t wanna play a show that uses Comic Sans on their promo material. How many times I gotta tell Daya down at the print shop? Shit font, no service should be a fucking rule.”

“Well, luckily, we all have better things to do with our Thanksgiving.”

It’s not that they _have_ to see each other. It isn’t dependency. They don’t even make it a point to see each other. They didn’t plan this breakfast ahead of time. Poussey just sends out a group text that says _breakfast?_ And here they are before they go their separate ways for the holiday.  

Alex walks in, swinging her ring of keys around her finger. She slides into the empty spot beside Flaca who eyes her like a particularly intrigued cat.

“The fuck are you doing, Vause?” Flaca asks. “You’re meeting Chapman’s parents, wearing that?”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Alex looks down at her black v-neck and her dark skinny jeans.

“Oh, only because you wear the same thing _every day_ ,” Nicky points out. “If it isn’t a black v-neck then it’s a white v-neck. Occasionally you’ll wear a band tee, flannel or ironic sweater to piss off the goths. If it isn’t dark blue skinny jeans, it’s black skinny jeans. Always Chucks.”

“Yeah man,” Poussey agrees. “You’re like one of those cartoon characters where they open their closet and it’s just a shit ton of the exact same outfit.”

“Fuck all three of you.” Alex snaps a menu away from Nicky and burrows behind it, ignoring all the smiles her friends are sporting.

“Come on, Vause.” Flaca bumps Alex’s shoulder with hers. “Although Nichols won’t do shit with her hair, she does wear skirts for her _girlfriend_.”

“Mostly for easy access, Token Straight Girl.” Alex props her face up in her hand and smiles at Flaca who rolls her eyes. “Or Undisclosed Bisexual Girl. Piper taught me that term.”

“Oh, so you do listen to her when she talks instead of just staring at her microscopic tits?” Flaca shoots back.

“Damn it, guys, it is too early to be pulling this shit,” Poussey mutters, looking over the menu that they all probably have memorized at this point. “I didn’t even get no coffee yet.”

Nicky gives Poussey’s shoulder a little shake because, yes, if they don’t interrupt Alex and Flaca, at the rate they were going, those two would end up in a physical altercation if left uninterrupted.

“Hey Flaca, is it my imagination or were we sitting right here, these exact spots even, when you said something about me having zero chance with Lorna?”

“So does this mean you’re _finally_ ready to admit your crush is the reason we started coming here and not the milkshakes?” Flaca volleys back.

“Sure,” Nicky says, “when you fess up to the real reason you do this homeless helper outer thing, huh?” Nicky looks between Poussey who’s suddenly very invested in flagging over a server to take their order and Flaca who narrows her eyes at Nicky in a way that would have anyone else running away in fear.

Even when someone comes by to take their order, Flaca doesn’t stop looking at Nicky, cursing her soul probably, and mutters something that sounds a lot like _I hate you_ in Spanish, but could also be some type of black magic curse. It makes Nicky feel so smug. Is this what being Alex Vause feels like all the time?

Poussey coughs and clears her throat. “Yo, we gotta do the thing. The thing where we each say what we’re thankful for.” Before the others can groan and complain about how lame that is, she adds, “Red would want us to.”

Silence sweeps across the table. With what loudmouths they are individually and especially together, silence is rare and a silence where they’re all thinking about Red is the most meaningful.

“I’m thankful Nicky’s girlfriend’s sister did not in fact give birth in the backseat of my car,” Alex says. She’s really never going to let Nicky live that one down. “Oxygen is a pretty big one. Thank god ‘Blurred Lines’ did not win the Grammy for Best Record of the Year.” She scoffs at the misuse of _record_. “And I’m thankful Piper cares less about the way I dress than the way I make her come.”

The round of groans comes then. Flaca does not look amused and Nicky throws her paper airplane right at Alex, but Poussey holds out a fist and bumps knuckles with the bassist in the glasses.

“I’m thankful for all the soldiers, men, women and vets, all the people serving f’real,” Poussey says. “I’m thankful for laughter. It’s yet to fail me at the end of a shit day. The Atlanta Twerk Team. And that my bomb ass friends let me DVR every episode of Barefoot Contessa even though they won’t admit they watch it even when I’m not around.”

“Keep dreaming, dreamer.” Nicky pats Poussey roughly on the shoulder before motioning for Flaca to go next.

“I’m thankful for the Smiths for inspiring me in new ways every day, every listen,” Flaca explains, because of course she does. “I’m thankful for my voice, both my singing voice and just in general because Ariel-ing through life would suck. I’m thankful for chocolate and massage school dropouts and being young, single and, for the lack of a better word, flaca.”

“I’m thankful to be alive.” Nicky laughs at herself when the words hang around and she suddenly feels the weight of them. “A leather jacket that ages like a fine wine. Mascara that keeps on giving even when you think it’s circling R.I.P. City. I’m thankful for Red…like every year. Uh, for meeting Lorna. And last, but not least, I’m thankful for music mostly because it’s awesome, but also because I got to know you assholes through this shitty band.”

“Jesus, this is all so corny Red would kick us each in the ass if she heard this.” Alex laughs warmly and raises her mug of coffee. “For Red.”

They all do the same, raising mugs of coffee and glasses of orange juice.

“For Red.”

After a moment, Flaca mutters, “We still don’t have a fucking band name.”

And they might never have a band name, but with how content they are sitting around the diner table together, going on hating on the Fucksgiving Fest lineup and occasionally teasing each other, not being able to put a name to it, but thoroughly (secretly) enjoying it might not be such a bad thing.

 

…

 

Nicky walks down the street with plastic bags swinging at her side. She feels weird in her favorite leather jacket, weird in her trusty, scuffed boots, weird in her skin. It’s the kind of jitters she always gets before taking the stage, except she can’t comfortably slip on her Nicky Nichols Cool Drummer persona and go into autopilot. This is new, uncharted terrain. Nicky has to be herself and that’s fucking scary.

She rings the door and Lorna answers it, just as nervous, which soothes Nicky in a weird way. Focusing on Lorna always seems to have a calming effect on her.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Nick!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, kid.” Nicky smirks and holds up the bag in her hands. “So I got a little over zealous at the grocery. I’ve got three different kinds of ice cream and a dozen assorted donuts and even a pumpkin pie. I figured pie is pie is incredible, right? It’s yet to fail me pulverized into a milkshake.”

Lorna shakes off a bit of her nerves, juts her hip to one side and plants her hand there. “That wouldn’t happen to be pie from a certain shitty little diner in Brooklyn, is it?”

“How’d you ever guess?”

“How many times I gotta tell you the diner food ain’t _that_ great, Nichols?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll just take a poll and see about that, huh? And I also got a coconut cream cake and chocolate ice cream. What a combination, I swear.”

“They eat it in Hawaii! It’s exotic!”

The second Lorna steps aside and lets her into the little walkup, Mario comes running up to Nicky, shouting about how he’s begging his mom and anyone who’ll listen for a drum kit for Christmas and wants to introduce her to _School of Rock_. There’s a toddler off to the side trying to pry open a soggy cigarette carton with his mouth and a newborn crying in the next room. In a matter of minutes immersed in the chaotic Morello house, Nicky realizes she isn’t nervous anymore. She feels no need to perform.

Nicky takes a moment to commit the smile Lorna shoots her way to memory. It seems to serve as enough motivation to start to get her shit together, clean her act up or at least _try_. Honestly, Nicky’s willing to do just about anything if it means getting Lorna to smile like that and at her more often.

 

…

 

_Before_

 

Nicky shoves into the tiny diner restroom, sweating profusely and shaking uncontrollably. She grips the edge of the sink and looks at her reflection. Dark circles under her eyes. Mascara running. A fresh cut across her cheek. Breathing loudly, she shakes off her leather jacket and lets it fall to the tile floor before reaching for the faucet with a trembling hand and splashing cold water onto her face.

“Fuck, so stupid,” Nicky hisses between her teeth, looking herself in the eyes. “Stupid fucking junkie. So fucking stupid… What would Red think, huh? What would Red think if she saw you? Fuck.”

Her hand curls into a fist and she strikes the paper dispenser hanging on the wall. Pain comes with the contact and travels throughout her body like a ripple in a still pond. Nicky whines quietly, not at the pain specifically, but the state of things as a whole. The heroin in her system, her first taste in nearly two years. The heroin her body is rejecting. The way her eye can’t stop twitching. The way Alex and Poussey and even fucking Flaca keep calling and texting, making her phone vibrate against the sink yet she can’t seem to bring herself to reply.

Nicky slumps back against the wall and slides down. She takes deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm down, to slow her heart that’s thumping so hard it almost hurts. The last time her heart was pumping so fast, Nicky woke up in a hospital bed with her biological mother telling her she should be dead. Her eyes slide close as she concentrate on her breathing, but the longer she’s in the darkness, the further away she feels from the bathroom. She feels herself starting to drift off, ready to submit to the feeling.

The restroom door squeals open followed by a quiet “Oh.”

Nicky forces her eyes open and she’s so glad she does. The most beautiful girl is standing there in the doorway. She’s so well put together from her hair to her red lips to her pristine dress and spotless white tennis shoes. She makes Nicky feel like dirt.

“Are you an angel?” Nicky doesn’t realize the words slipped out until she hears them with her own ears and has to laugh. “Are ya death? Here to take me? Fucking finally. Don’t let them save me this time…don’t…”

“Are you alright?” she asks with a thick Brooklyn accent that has Nicky refocusing her attention. “Did you fall or something?” She squats at Nicky’s side and touches her forehead. “Jesus, you’re burnin’ up.”

“Just fucking take me already, please,” Nicky cries. She clamps her clammy hands onto the woman’s shoulders, catches a glimpse of a nametag. _Lorna_. “I wanna see Red.” Nicky whimpers, letting her head roll onto her shoulder and her eyes shut, welcoming the dark. “I need ta see Red…”

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is… Listen, you don’t look so good. Maybe I should call 9-1-1 or—”

“Fuck them!” Nicky’s eyes snap open again. She’s had paramedics look down their noses at her, another junkie, another piece of shit they have to deal with just to do it all over again after the next high, human filth not worthy or appreciative of their skills. “Just wanna die already…”

“You don’t mean that. You…you… Red wouldn’t want that for you.”

And suddenly Nicky jolts awake, making Lorna jump back a step. Her anger makes her more alert, more grounded because what does this angel face _Lorna_ person know about Red? Nothing. She doesn’t know a fucking thing about Red just like the dick in the ski mask who shot her five times over a cash register of small bills, who left her to bleed out on the bakery floor and grabbed a pastry before leaving. Then she remembers all over again, why she’s like this, why there’s no point anymore. Red is dead. Her rock is gone and Nicky is adrift.

“You’re nice-looking.” Nicky settles back against the wall again, feeling the heaviness of her shoulders, the heaviness of her eyes, the heaviness of existing in general. “I wish I was like you…easily amused…find my nest of salt…everything is my fault…I’ll take all the blame…aqua seafoam shame…”

“Hey, hey, don’t do that. You gotta stay awake…You… You’re scaring me…”

The sound of Nicky’s phone vibrating against the counter catches them both off-guard. Nicky blinks repeatedly, jarred back to consciousness, as Lorna runs over and grabs the phone.

“Hello, this is Lorna…Nicky? You mean, the girl with the hair…? Yeah, yeah, she’s here. She ain’t lookin’ too good, to be honest. I found her in the bathroom of the diner I work at… Yeah, I’ll text you the address. You sure I shouldn’t call 9-1-1 or something?” Lorna nods vigorously. “Okay, okay, I will.”

After ending the call, Lorna quickly sends off a text and sits next to Nicky on the bathroom floor. She slips her fingers between Nicky’s and gives her hand a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Hey Nicky, I’m Lorna. Alex is on her way and I’m gonna stay with you till she gets here, alright?”

“Don't leave,” Nicky nearly begs, legs squirming restlessly. “Everyone leaves…” She laughs weakly and sings softly, “Hugs can be deceiving, everyone is leaving… Ha, I wrote that…I…fuck, it’s the realest…”

“I won’t. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

“Good.” Nicky’s voice is faint and her eyes are closed, but every once in a while Lorna squeezes her hand and Nicky focuses all of what little energy she has into squeezing back. “After this, how about a milkshake?”

Lorna laughs shakily. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Nicky open her eyes and tries to keep them open solely to look at Lorna, this beautiful Good Samaritan. As her head goes even fuzzier around the edges, Nicky starts to hum and then sing roughly beneath her breath. 

“In the sun…in the sun, I feel as one…”

 

Lorna keeps her promise.

Nicky isn’t sure if it’s entirely possible to repay Lorna for that night, but she’s determined to spend the rest of her life trying. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: Every single OITNB episode title (that we've seen so far) is somewhere in this gigantic monster story because I have to entertain myself somehow.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://brambledon.tumblr.com/). 


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